


The Omega Ball

by Unloyal_Olio



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Arranged Marriage, Dark Comedy, Druids, Dubious Consent, Kissing Contest, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unloyal_Olio/pseuds/Unloyal_Olio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the way alphas and omegas meet: they go to the druid's omega ball. Given his father's proclivity for murdering magic folk, Arthur has to go in disguise. Meanwhile, Merlin is still trying to hide his abilities. Morgana is up to no good with an ancient potion. Lancelot is fearfully noble, and Gwaine is laughing at everyone. </p><p>Somehow, nobody ends up properly waltzing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Um, here's another plotty omegaverse fic. But this time it's Merlin! And ALL of the usual omegaverse warnings apply to this. DUBCON, MPREG-THEMES, CRAZYARSED ALPHAS STALKING WEE PRETTY BOYS, SEX FRENZIES, and well, lots of smut. So, yeah, if you don't know what omegaverse is, consider reading [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/403644) so I don't horribly scandalize you.

It began, as all truly horrible things did in Merlin’s life, with magic.

Also, an irascible sheepdog. 

In truth, Argie was more wild boar than dog, though he had a snout as long as a rake and with about as many teeth. For such a big dog, he was generally well-behaved, and even if he sometimes over-harrassed the sheep, he’d never attacked Merlin before.

Except that, well, he _attacked_ Merlin.

One moment Merlin was standing upright, crunching on a carrot from his pack and musing over Will’s afternoon fletching lesson (disaster and a half), and in the next, Merlin was tackled by four paws, a great deal of stinking fur, and a snuffling snout beside his ear.

If Merlin wasn’t magical, he didn’t know what would have happened. Nevertheless, magic surged out of him. When Merlin looked up, Argie was ten paces away, howling and rutting at an invisible wall of air.

Merlin searched the hillside. No one was around now, but with the howling racket that Argie was making...

The large elm would have to do.

He released Argie in the nick of time. Trudging up the hill was Rhys—the man who was paying Merlin to keep his sheep under control.

“What, in Lord’s name?” Rhys was demanding, stomping toward Merlin—when he ground to a stop. “Bugger. F—.” And if _that_ wasn’t weird enough (Rhys could drink a barrel to waist-high and not be tongue-tied), he lifted his head skyward and breathed in, his arms falling out to the sides and his whole body rocking like he was doing a child’s fairy dance with the wind.

“Rhys,” Merlin called, “I am not ignoring my job. I was watching the sheep when Argie went barmy.”

“Merlin,” Rhys said, his eyes closed. “I need ya to run. I’m going to hold Argie, but I need ya to climb down from that tree and run as fast as yer skinny legs can carry ya.”

“What—? Just hold Argie, I’ll—”

“No, Merlin, ya dolt—ya got the scent on ya. Smell like ripe fruit. Ya can’t be going into town. Ya need to hide. I’ll tell Hunith. I’ll have her bring you some supplies. Don’t answer to anyone but her, y’hear me? Not even me.”

But Merlin’s grip was slipping on the branch. The scent. 

Merlin didn’t have “the scent.” He had magic, yeah, and that was enough. He might smell of herbs and tallow but not omega. That was ridiculous. He was not an omega. He didn’t feel—

But then all the facts hit him in the gut. He was fifteen. The perfect age, and he still had paltry stubble and could never build muscle no matter how he worked at it. And more so, he thought about how _dry_ he felt yesterday, so thirsty, like he could drink the whole well. And then there was the feverishness in his body. It was cool out today yet he felt sweaty, despite the breeze.

Merlin gulped and looked out, really looking at Rhys. Everything about the man was strained. In fact, the expressions on him and Argie looked far too similar.

“Okay, I’ll run,” he said.

Rhys nodded, but there was a gleam in his eyes that Merlin had never seen before. Still, Rhys dragged Argie back from the trunk. It was while Rhys was tying Argie to a distant oak that Merlin made a run for it.

He dove into the undergrowth, ignoring the scratch of brambles and smack of branches. He ran and he ran, using magic to camouflage himself; gathering the bright currents to still the wind and halt the spread of his scent. He only paused when he was deep in the wood, crossing over a surging brook. The thirst was tight in his throat, so he paused to gulp down some water. The afternoon’s light was coming in horizontal so his reflection was bright and clear despite the white foam. What he saw startled him. His eyes were solid gold. Not glowing like they sometimes did when he was alive with magic, but a steady yellow-color; their normal pale blue was missing.

Merlin was glad that this was his first nymph cycle, and that he was not going to go into a full-on mature-omega heat. Still, he had never hated his body more. Even if his desires hadn’t changed, even if he wasn’t addled and begging to be bred, his own pheromones were a treacherous herald, and his lower abdomen churned when he bent over; there was an uncomfortable stretching that he couldn’t help but distrust.

That night he gathered wild sorrel and berries for dinner before he climbed another tree. He called vines about himself so that he was wrapped secure, and finally, fatigue took over.

The moon was directly overhead when the calls startled him awake. By the glow of torches, he recognized Rhys and others. They all had their hunting dogs with them and they were calling his name.

 _Merlin. Merlin._ Over and over again.

Merlin had never been so terrified in his whole life.

At some point in the night, their footfalls were replaced by the howling of wolves, which was worse.

\- - - -

It was only when morning came, and along with it, the soft song of his mother, that he was finally able to breathe. Hunith was walking with her herb basket slung over her shoulder and a crossbow in her grip. She was singing a cradle song, but her face was heavy with sorrow.

Not wanting to startle her, Merlin hooted softly from his high branch.

Hunith’s skirts whirled as she spun, and even though Merlin knew she heard him, she was surveying the surrounding forest with a ferocious expression. When she finally looked up, directly at where Merlin was sitting, he saw pure fear.

“Oh, Merlin.” Her eyes searched his frame for injuries. “Are you okay?”

“No one—I mean, I had to use my magic to escape, but I don’t think anyone noticed.” Merlin had spent his entire life hiding his magic. Thus, that _this_ —being an omega—would be the source of his public exposure... well, it was shocking enough to be funny.

Hunith sighed in relief. “Good, then they’ll take you.”

Wait, what? “ _Who_ will take me?”

“Word has spread. Cenred’s men are coming. There’s a price on you. We have to hurry you out to safety.”

“You mean to the druids?” Merlin asked in a hush. “But they won’t take me. I have...” It went unspoken: _magic _.__

Hunith shook her head. “You’re an untainted omega, easy to match. They will take you. And your magic won’t be a problem. They’ll welcome it.”

Merlin froze. “But you said—”

“When I last tried to join them, they said your time had not yet come. Uther was chasing the druids to his borders and beyond so that there was no safety in numbers, and more importantly,” Hunith glanced down at her hands, “they would have taken you—they always would have—but not me.”

“Oh,” Merlin breathed, hopping off the lowest branch. He’d always wondered why he was raised away.

“Now, the time is here, and we must take you to them.” Hunith walked toward him.

“But they won’t let you stay.” Maybe it was the hormones coursing through his body, but Merlin’s eyes welled with tears. On any other day, he’d be stating his case for his very adult-manliness. He’d be ribbing his mum for worrying too much. But in this moment, all he could think was: _But I’m only fifteen. I’m not supposed to lose my mum._

Hunith held her arms out, and he went to her, letting her wrap him in an embrace. Still, no matter how tightly she held him, it wasn’t enough. They were going to have to separate.

For his lunch, there was bread and sheep’s milk cheese. Merlin choked it down while Hunith treated his scratches with balm and then rubbed his chest and arms with herbs to stifle his scent. 

Then they ran.

\- - - -

Three days later, when they reached the druids, it was as Hunith said, they took Merlin in, calling him Emrys and covering him in talismans and enchanted robes, but they would not take his mother.

In the forest, the druids watched him constantly but never included him in their circles. One of the elders gave him a spell book to peruse but no tutor accompanied it. Among the druids, it was as if he were a ghost. And as for the other omegas, they came almost entirely from the fine Houses. Merlin was the only one without a title. Thus, he was snubbed.

And very alone.

\- - - -

Arthur had been convinced that the marriage negotiations were going well until they weren’t. 

He’d met the girl that morning, Saeren Fahael, who was lovely in her own way with a smoothly sloped nose, nut-colored hair and beetle black eyes. Her conversation had been teasing, and Arthur had liked the way she’d laughed. That’s why Arthur was completely at ease as the terms of his future happiness were being negotiated.

That was, until Father began the interrogation on the Farhael family’s breeding history.

“Sir Farhael, I believe you are an alpha?” Father asked, even though he knew perfectly well that Sir Farhael was an alpha. Lord, even Arthur could smell it.

“I am, Your Majesty.”

“You have... five children?” Father read from the sheet in front of him.

“Four sons after Saeren.” Sir Farhael beamed proudly, before adding, “And another on the way.”

Father’s brows arch. “Saeren is nearly seventeen, yet her mother still bears young?”

“Oh—no. Lady Teleri is an omega and my second wife. She is not Saeren’s mother.”

“And what happened to Saeren’s mother?” Father asked, face schooled to neutrality.

“She died in childbirth, Sire.”

And then Arthur was desperately yearning for a shield to hide his face behind, because the fallout was inevitable. 

Father rose to his feet and uttered a single, “No.”

“Sire.” Sir Farhael was bent back in his chair, face aghast.

But Father had rounded on Lord Temel. “You had said the match was perfect, and yet you neglected such a basic fact that her mother _died in childbirth_.” Lord Temel’s hand was clenched protectively around his neck, and Arthur didn’t really blame him, what with the red veins popping in Father’s corneas.

This was naturally when Arthur realized it was up to him to salvage the situation. “Lord Farhael, naturally, you have both my own as well as my father’s condolences with regard to your late wife. As you are aware, my own mother died in bringing me into this world. My father still grieves her, as the memory is ever fresh.”

Father, who had long since drawn his sword so as to press the tip to Lord Temel’s Adam’s apple, finally paused, as if realizing himself.

With a sigh, he released Temel’s collar and turned around to face Lord Farhael. “It is as my son says. I did not bring you and your daughter here to waste your time, but I fear that is exactly what has been done. I cannot in good conscience allow my son to marry a woman whose own mother died of childbirth. After I lost my Igraine, I could never bring myself to remarry. And as our line is already thin, it is essential that Arthur marry a woman with,” Father frowned at the impropriety of his words, “a solid breeding history in her family.”

“Then I fail to understand,” Lord Farhael said primly, “Why not have Arthur choose an omega at the ball?”

The room went quiet.

Father was turning pumice yet again, and as Lord Temel's face only had just begun to regain its color, it was once again Arthur’s duty to speak. “The omegas are raised by the druids, my Lord. And as my father and the druids are at war...”

“I understand that, Your Majesties, and I share many of your opinions on sorcery, but the omegas themselves are not magical. Regardless of her yearlong sanctuary in the forest, my young wife is the joy of my existence. And certainly, with an omega as your son’s mate, childbearing would no longer be a concern. Otherwise, you know as well as I do, all beta females, my daughter included, take a great risk in bearing an alpha’s young.”

“That is enough,” Father said, voice gruff.

“My apologies, Sire.” Lord Farhael’s bow was very low, indeed.

“Apology accepted,” Father said. “It seems today has been one of constant, unintentional insults. And Lord Temel, if you mistakenly thought I’d forget this failure, we will be renegotiating the terms of your royal tithe this afternoon before Council meetings.” 

With that, Father strode from the room, but not before Arthur caught the look on his face: mouth set in a line and eyes angled skyward. It was an expression that was both thoughtful and irritated. 

Arthur had a bad feeling about it.

\- - - -

It was a month later, a week after Ostara, when Father called him away from his knights and asked him to accompany him for a “walk on the grounds.” As this had never happened before, Arthur knew the topic without having to ask. 

Still, it was awkward to hear his father say, “A mating between an alpha and an omega is sacred in both the New and Old Religions. It is most unfortunate that it has the taint of the druids.”

“Unfortunate,” Arthur agreed, though it was well known that no one besides the druids had the powers to protect omegas, suppressing their scents so that marriages could be arranged by contract and not force. Otherwise, omegas had to be locked in stonewalled basements following their nymphing, which no one thought was particularly humane.

And as much as Father hated sorcery, his conquests on the druids had been the shortest-lived. Besides being impossible to find, the druids had used their role with omegas to open doors for sanctuary in all lands. 

Father continued, “But if the relationship were to be... non-magical, it could prove beneficial for Camelot. You’ve met few omegas, but they are charming—always charming.”

Arthur had quite bluntly never been allowed in the presence of a young omega. He had memories of Morgana’s mother from when he was a child, but that was about it. Though, it was not like he hadn’t _thought_ about it. The way other alphas described them, you’d think omegas were made of honeyed mead. Rather ridiculous. “I will do whatever is best for Camelot, Father. You know that. Though, as we’ve said before, it’d be nice if she were fair.”

“All omegas, the males even, they’re always fair,” Father said darkly, before forcing a smile again. “I wanted to give you the option. I had it, though I refused it for your mother.”

“What option?”

“To go to the omega ball.”

Arthur stared for a long moment at his father. He did not want reproach if he agreed, and there was always the chance that Father would be amenable now and change his mind later. Magic was afterall involved. Arthur needed to know his father was certain.

But the king shook his head wearily. “You could not attend, of course, as the prince of Camelot. The druids remain our enemies. You’d have to go under a different title, but those details would be attended to. And even upon going, there’s no certainty that you would be chosen.”

“It's the omega who chooses?” Arthur couldn’t stop his laugh. He’d never heard of anything like it.

“Both alpha and omega must agree. The druids will have it no other way. They seek ‘true pairings.’” Despite his soft eye roll, Uther's tone wasn't harsh, as it normally was when he spoke of sorcery. But then Arthur's parents had been a love match, a rare thing.

“Oh, well...” That didn’t sound so bad. Arthur had never had a problem attracting female interest. And the idea of going under a different name appealed to him. He could find a wife who liked him just for him, Arthur. Not Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot. Arthur didn’t really consider himself a romantic, but to have someone whom he genuinely liked, someone he could fall in love with even, that wasn’t to be abandoned lightly, was it? There was honor in such a pursuit.

“You would leave in two weeks,” Farther said.

“I will think on it,” Arthur said carefully.

But that was a lie. 

Unless Father changed his mind, Arthur was decided. He would go and collect a mate.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um, a kissing contest?

Merlin’s first real heat passed in a breezy tent on the banks of the river. It was the druid chieftain, Ilsedir, who attended him, wrapping him in furs of fox and mink, coating his lips with a broth that tasted of morels, and drawing lines with a talcum of berries and walnuts that slicked all the way from Merlin’s ears, around his belly button, down each bare thigh, to finally his toes. 

Merlin’s face was red as a beet the entire time Ilsedir was drawing the lines, but that didn’t stop him from asking, “Why are you doing this for me? Why not one of the others.” 

Merlin especially wanted to know because Ilsedir was an alpha. (That’d been the greatest change since his nymphing. Merlin could now smell alphas, even pick out their individual scent, for they always smelled good in a way that embarrassed him). All of the other omegas in the forest camp had been attended by the female betas. None by the alpha chieftain.

Granted, in this camp, Merlin was the only male. Maybe, that was the reason why.

Ilsedir’s face didn’t change at Merlin’s question, but Merlin sensed the amusement in his aura. “Your magic is powerful, as will be your first heat. Strong protections are required. And then there is the fact that you are Emrys. You have a destiny.” Ilsedir gathered more paste from the ceramic mortar and stared at Merlin. “Do you wish to see it?”

“I’m not sure that I do.” But then he paused. “Or wait. Am I supposed to see my mate? Is that was this is about?”

Ilsedir didn’t answer him. His finger was steady in the air with the glob of paste on it. The paste itself held no magic, but Merlin sensed that something else was a play.

His curiosity got the best of him, then. He nodded his consent.

Ilsedir drew three runes: a solid circle on his cheek (“for clarity”) a twisting dragon spiral down his ribs (“for destiny”), and then reaching his hand _under Merlin’s arse_ a single dot that caused his hole to clench (“to know thy mate”). It was to Merlin’s credit that he kept silent, despite his shock over the act.

“Take a breath, Merlin.”

Merlin’s gasp for air included a full body shudder.

\- - - -

For the next three nights, the druids took turns chanting over him. But Merlin did not know their faces. Rather, he saw the surface from watery depths and clutched his hands around a gilded hilt that would not yield no matter how hard he pulled. When he rolled through grass, he smelled sweat and leathers as much as the acid-sweetness of his nose buried among the green blades. His fingers ran through soft shorn hair and his eyes met matching blue. Somewhere near the end, he heard a deep and rumbling voice that was as much roar as human tongue, one that whispered, “With him, you shall unite Albion, and together you shall make her great.”

When he was himself again, they took him to the river and scrubbed him until his skin was pink. They dressed him in white, and even though he’d known they would (they dressed all the unbonded omegas in white after their maturity), he kept toying with the pristine fabric. Water magic must have been used to get it so clean, he was sure.

Two weeks later the caravans rolled into their part of the forest.

Ilsedir came to ask him. “All is ready. Are you?”

He was. Merlin wrapped his spell book in oiled skins and headed to the caravan without a moment’s hesitation. A flap covered the back, but Merlin pushed it aside to reveal soft wool rugs and lantern light. There was only one other omega there, and Merlin did not know her. Still, when he arranged himself on a pillow, the girl smiled openly. 

Merlin smiled back, but he didn’t expect anything, not after having met so many other of her lot. And she definitely looked like royalty, beautiful with long black hair and pale green eyes. Her white gown was as simple as his, but there was something about her bearing that was regal to the core.

But then the driver, a young druid with a sand-colored beard, walked around the back, and the girl called, “Are we to leave soon?”

Except she didn’t say the words aloud. Rather, she spoke as the druids did, solely with her mind. 

The driver answered her back, _We have three more coming._

Merlin couldn’t help his staring. And it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Oh, you’re...” The girl’s smile grew wider. “Like me.”

“I’m Merlin.” He let his eyes flash gold.

“Morgana.” The joy in her smile was overwhelming now, and titles be damned, Merlin was certain he’d found a friend.

\- - - - 

“I was a royal ward in Camelot,” Morgana told him later. “And you can imagine how I panicked when my visions started manifesting. The castle physician drugged me each night so my ‘bad dreams’ would go unnoticed by Uther. When they did the ‘ladies’ test,’” Morgana rolled her eyes, “and found out I was an omega like my mother, it was a blessing in disguise. Uther sent me to a convent. Though, of course, even a convent isn’t safe for an unbonded omega, so as soon as the sisters saw that the coast was clear, they packed me up and sent me straight to the druids.”

“You knew Uther?” Merlin asked her.

Morgana gritted her teeth. “I’d rather not talk about Uther. I used to--” She took a breath. “--I used to love him, until I realized what he was, I mean, when I was finally allowed to be myself. And now I can only meet his hatred of my kind with hatred for him. I watched a sorcerer's child die at the hands of one of his soldiers. A little girl with long black hair. She looked just like me when I was that age, and yet Uther would have had her slaughtered.”

“It is horrible,” Merlin agreed.

“If there was any way--” 

But she was cut off by a druid beckoning them into a tent. 

Morgana was not done with her rant. There was more, so much more. Merlin could feel the heat of it, coming off of her aura like smoke, but they couldn't discuss it now.

Morgana was lead behind a screen but the druid in charge took Merlin to a separate tent. 

“Males in here,” the druid informed him before gathering up a collection of leaves and feathers and shuffling them in a wooden bowl. “I’ll need some hairs, too.” The druid held out his open palm.

“What is this for?” Merlin asked, wincing as plucked out one black hair then another.

“Chastity, Emrys.” The druid threw the hairs into the bowl before sticking a dry twig into the candle flame.

“Oh, um--” 

Merlin didn’t need to ask, though, as he watched the druid light the contents of the bowl. The pattern was rather simple and profoundly clear with its intentions. Merlin thought he could break the spell pretty easily.

“But you’ll leave it as it is,” the druid said, as if he’d heard Merlin’s thoughts. (He didn’t.) “The omega males, like you, are always a concern to us. Some of the alphas think the same rules of chivalry that go for the females don’t apply to the males.”

“It is--I mean, as a male, will it be harder for me to find a mate?”

“Did a pack of men not chase you out of your village?”

“That’s different. I’m talking about a mate. Not a pack of mad men.”

The druid smiled, but didn’t stop fanning the fire in the bowl. “Emrys always has a mate.”

\- - - - 

Arthur chose Gwaine to accompany him. Not because Gwaine was wonderful company but rather because he had a title from Caerleon as well as Camelot. Also, more than his other knights, Arthur thought Gwaine could use a wife to settle him. Their final companion was Gaius, who Uther insisted upon.

Arthur was to be Arthur of Dorstag, from a fiefdom in Olaf’s kingdom with an excessive number of blond cousins. Gaius informed him that for a fact, there were at least three (that he knew of) named Arthur.

The journey lasted two weeks, but at last they were descending into the misty valley, and as soon as they entered the druid’s forest, Arthur and Gwaine exchanged a wide-eyed glance. 

Because the smell.

It sent Arthur’s blood racing. He needed to find it, hunt it down, and conquer it. And yet--he wheeled his horse about--trying to find the trail, but there was none. The perfume was in front of him, behind him. It was everywhere, no matter where he turned, yet there was no trail.

He was still in his frantic state when he heard Gaius calling his name.

Arthur turned, and then he saw them. The druids.

Gaius was already off of his horse with his wrist extended. Arthur watched, part in fascination, part in horror, as one cloaked figure wrapped a band around Gaius’s wrist while the other threw some confetti (feather, dried flowers?) over the crown of his head.

Behind him, Arthur heard, “If you wish to attend, you shall submit to the rules of the ball. Do you submit?”

Arthur turned and found himself staring down upon a small silver-haired woman.

“Do you submit?” she asked again. She was smiling at him.

Arthur dismounted and dropped to his knee. “I will submit.”

The woman laughed before begging him to stand. “The only submission we request is in your manners and in your heart. We protect those who require both.”

Well, so far, none of this sounded much like evil sorcery. “I submit in both.”

“Then lay out your wrist and duck your head,” she commanded, and when Arthur had done both, the woman began softly chanting while she bound a strap of leather about his wrist and threw (definitely feathers and flower petals) over the crown of his head. Lastly, she took a circle of white flowers and laid the hoop neatly across his brow.

Altogether, it felt more like a wedding ceremony than a magical binding.

Still when she was done, she said, “Take a breath.”

Arthur did so and realized for the first time that his head was clear. The heady scent was still present but only in the back of his mind.

“Come and meet the omegas,” the druid said, picking up his hand.

Mindlessly, Arthur followed her.

\- - - -

At first, it was interesting. Merlin was given a mossy spot on a log. As the druids guided the alphas through the forest and into the encampment, the circuitous route took them past all the omegas. One by one they were introduced. 

It was as if all the beautiful men in the Five Kingdoms and beyond had been corralled right at his feet. So, for the first twenty men, he was excited, pleased even. He made small talk and blushed when he was approached. For the next forty alphas, he was in a good humor. But Lord help him, for the last eighty, he didn’t even bother to get up. He found a nice position against his log and waved when they passed.

Somewhere around number two hundred, he just completely gave up. There were what, fifty-sixty omegas in the camp? That meant there was a four-to-one ratio at least, and Merlin couldn’t even be bothered. Being nice to so many people was simply exhausting. He let his head slump back against the log and took a nap.

He was awakened by someone tapping on his shoulder. Merlin opened his eyes to see a man with long dark hair only inches away from him. “You are my little escapee,” the man said.

Merlin blinked his eyes open, only half-processing the man’s words. “I’m slender but not short. I resent being called little.” And then he yawned.

The alpha snorted. “Your name?”

“Merlin. Yours?”

“I am King Cenred of Essetir.”

Merlin was sufficiently startled that he banged his head on the log. Wincing, he said, “Alright, didn’t expect that. Do you take joy in popping it on unsuspecting people like that, all the time?”

Cenred was trying but failing miserably to hold back his smile. “It’s nothing to hurt your head over.”

Merlin wanted to frown at him, but Cenred was unfortunately close, and well, fuck a Billy goat, he smelled like cloves and Yule holly, so it was all Merlin could do to somewhat narrow his eyes and say, “Don’t you have a kingdom to look over? Why are you harassing poor, _little_ napping omegas?”

“I’m hoping one will come home with me. Maybe, you.” 

Cenred was very, very close. And all right, part of the intrigue was that Cenred was sickly good looking, besides smelling like Christmas come early, there was the whole fact that he was the distant (if completely derelict) liege of Merlin’s village, and him having a big castle with lots of knights and tithes and powerful thingies to move around was vaguely hot.

“I think you’re trying to break the rules,” Merlin whispered, because Cenred’s eyes were focused on Merlin’s lips, and well, it would seem that Cenred was aiming for a kiss.

But when Merlin looked up at the druid supposedly managing Cenred, her arms were crossed, but it was all annoyance, not reprimand. _The only real rule is against breeding,_ she told Merlin.

Merlin had just begun to process what that _meant_ when Cenred’s lips brushed Merlin’s, and _oh, well,_ Merlin thought, _being kissed by a king isn’t so bad_ , because the push of lips was strong, but when Cenred withdrew, it was so tauntingly slow that Merlin could feel the drag of the king’s stubble; the pop of his upper lip, when Cenred’s teeth released it.

“That is the least of what I want to do to you,” Cenred uttered in Merlin’s ear. And then slowly, with heavy breaths, he withdrew.

Cenred had only just left Merlin’s very humid clearing when a hulking shape whipped from behind a tree and with the fattest smile Merlin had ever seen, declared, “Me, next.” And then the man puckered his lips.

“Does that normally work on women?” Merlin asked, brow raised.

The man laughed, but he also scooted closer. “I’m Gwaine. And titles mean shit to me. Also, I have never wanted to fuck a boy before—but damn if you aren’t pretty.” 

Merlin seriously considered cracking the overhead tree branch over the man’s skull. 

But Gwaine saw his expression and laughed again, though he finally edged away from Merlin. “Aw, you like the fancy types then? Can’t stand them myself, but then, I was raised in squalor in a dirty country village. Sorry if the stink offends,” Gwaine said, making to stand.

But Merlin grabbed his (rather finely shaped) arm. “I was raised in a village, too—and you say you hate titles, yet you wear the crest of a knight.”

Gwaine gazed down at the crest on tunic, before looking up and smiling again. “Yeah, it’s a job.”

Merlin rolled his eyes but extended his hand. “Merlin.”

“Hi, Merlin. And you know that was King Cenred, yeah? Real prick of a ruler. I’m glad I’m not serving under him.”

Merlin can’t find it in himself to agree or disagree. 

“Oh, hey now, I saw that kiss,” Gwaine protested. “You can’t be all that swayed by it. That kiss was nothing. Kings kiss like fish.”

“Have you kissed many kings?” Merlin asked.

“Have you kissed any village boys?”

“Yeah,” Merlin said, because sure, there’d been that time he and Will got drunk on mead…

Gwaine barked a laugh. “So, you’ll kiss everyone but me. How can I have a fair shot then?” And well, Gwaine flipped himself around Merlin, kneeling in front of him, between his legs, and he was there and close and big. No, not big, HUGE. The man was a giant.

Oh, yeah, and the smell, too. Gwaine smelled of seaside pine and salt, and when he nuzzled in close, not being sexy or even aggressive, really being just silly, it wasn’t in Merlin to say anything but “I suppose one won’t hurt…” 

And one didn’t. Not with the way Gwaine caught his whole head in his hands and curved their faces so gently. But well, two, couldn’t hurt either, could it? Until Gwaine got in his mouth, and oh fuck, the taste. Three—four? Merlin found himself pressed back against the log, even as Gwaine’s hands walked down his ribs, and it was all Merlin could do to grip on for ballast.

They were interrupted by a throat clearing.

Merlin couldn’t really see, but Gwaine muttered, “Go away, Arthur,” before leaning down to lick at Merlin’s tongue again.

Merlin licked back because who said magic was so great? This was great. Magic’s magic magickery. Mind-numbing. Dark spice, and was that Gwaine’s hand sliding his lower back? Merlin pressed tighter against him.

That was until Gwaine got yanked backwards. 

A golden haired man was doing the yanking, while still talking. “I’m sorry, m’lady, but he—oh, wait. You’re a boy.” He turned back around to frown at Gwaine, before pointing back at Merlin. “He’s a boy.”

“Yeah, male omegas are rare, and I want one. Him,” Gwaine said longingly. “Cenred can’t have him.”

“Wait—Cenred is here?” 

“Merlin, pick me,” Gwaine said, breathless. “Not him. I showed you that village boys kiss better than kings.”

“Oh, please,” the golden-haired man said, stepping over Gwaine’s long form. “Slobbering all over someone does not count. You—Merlin was it? Might want to wipe right there.” He was pointing at a spot on his own chin.

Merlin wiped with his sleeve, and well, maybe the kiss was on the messy side. So what?

Off to the side, the two druids ‘managing’ the situation had become completely distracted due to their silent conversation on whether cold versus hot springs made better sources for scrying water. 

“And you are?” Merlin asked, glaring up at the man.

“Arthur,” he snapped before rounding on Gwaine. “Is Cenred really here?” 

Gwaine thrust himself upright so as to sit and glare out into the forest. “He kissed Merlin. Made me jealous.”

Arthur turned back around to face Merlin with an incredulous expression. “Have you kissed everyone who’s come through here?”

“No!” Both Gwaine and Merlin yell at the same time.

“And of all people why did you kiss _Cenred_ and Gwaine? Surely, Gwaine, this is the first time you’ve kissed someone outside of a pub, much less sober.”

Merlin turned to Gwaine with wide eyes. “Is he always such a prat?”

Gwaine threw back his head and started laughing hysterically, before finally gasping out, “Or at least not used to being called out on it.”

Arthur’s mouth opened and closed then opened again, before saying, “At least I don’t slobber uncontrollably.”

Gwaine shook his head. “What, you think you could do better? Because practicing with your sister’s dolls doesn’t…” 

But whatever Gwaine was saying, it didn’t register with Merlin, because the instant the challenge had been made, _you could do better?_ , Arthur had more or less charged at Merlin. 

Being charged again was not what Merlin wanted, and Merlin was all ready to shove Arthur off. Hell, even hex him. And he would have, except Arthur did this little thing: right when their nose tips were touching, he smiled, small and devilishly, like he realized exactly how much of a prat he was for doing this. And then to further defy expectations, he didn’t go for Merlin’s mouth. No, he dragged his cheek along Merlin’s, the scratch of the stubble causing Merlin’s whole body to tremble and press in closer. For a second, all Merlin knew was steamy breaths against his neck, but then Arthur’s tongue flicked against the soft skin of Merlin’s ear, and Merlin was gone—gone—gone. 

He attacked Arthur in turn, biting at his neck, and well, licking. Lots of licking, for Arthur tasted like butter and salt and smelled like blood and leather, like richness and life. 

Merlin could have stayed buried there forever, happily sucking on skin, but when Arthur dragged their mouths together that was fine too. Arthur’s lips nipped Merlin’s open, and fuck, the man tasted good and bad. Good, like sour grass and salt, but bad, because Merlin couldn’t drink enough in. His fingers grabbed at Arthur’s shirt, but not enough. 

Arthur made a scratchy growl sound, one that caused Merlin to moan back—and Arthur must have liked the moan, because his hands gripped so tight on Merlin’s hips. And oh fuck, they were falling. Merlin was in the dirt again, pebbles digging into his back, but his hands were in Arthur’s hair, and it was soft and familiar and—

Oh fuck.

It wasn’t supposed to be familiar.

Soft golden hair. Blue eyes. Leather and sour fruit. Blood and sweat.

It was him.

Arthur.

Arthur was his mate.

The shock of it was enough to cause Merlin to finally push Arthur back, to throw him off so that he could look at his face and be sure that the profiles matched.

“What?” Arthur asked breathless.

Blue eyes. Golden hair, and his voice. Definitely his haughty, prat-like voice.

“You,” Merlin whispered.

In the moment all they could do was stare at one another, trying to calm their breathing.

In the background, Merlin was vaguely aware of Gwaine saying, “So I’ll admit. Practicing with dolls might have its upsides.”


	3. Chapter 3

After the kiss, Merlin more or less high-tailed it back to his tent. There would be, without a doubt, more suitors coming, but he couldn’t bear to stay in the glade for a second longer. None of the druids stopped him. Instead, he heard their chatter: 

_Emrys has sensed his mate... The blond one or the tall knight? ...Surely, not the one from Olaf’s kingdom... Why did Emrys flee him? ...Anearys said that Cenred put hands on him... But Cenred puts his hands on all who let him... No, he kissed the male. … Kissed him!_

For all their mystical fluttering, it could not be said that the druids didn’t know how to gossip.

Merlin focused all his attention on closing his mind and not hyperventilating. When Morgana came hours later, he was still carefully bent on this pursuit, his head locked between his knees as he breathed steadily in and out.

“Merlin! Merlin! You would not believe who has come,” Morgana rushed out, before pausing and fully taking in Merlin’s state. “Oh my, you didn’t partake of Wensel’s tea, did you? He likes to mix poppy extract in it, and it tends to have a stronger effect on omegas, no matter that it relaxes your magic.”

“I—. No.” Although, Merlin thought he might like some “special tea” just about now.

Morgana frowned at him. “Well, as you are not capable of talking, I shall share my news first.” She lowered herself onto the cushion beside him and leaned in close. “Uther Pendragon’s son is here.”

“Uther’s what? The prince?”

“It’s unfortunate. My grudge is against Uther—though assuredly son will be like father.” 

“Probably,” Merlin managed. “Are you going to tell the druids?”

Morgana scowled. “It wouldn’t matter anyway. The druids refuse to let politics enter into the omega ball, and they will never kill but in self-defense. No, this is a battle that I must take upon myself.”

“Did the prince recognize you?”

Morgana laughed. “Oh, did he. He had no idea I was here. None. We were raised as brother and sister and yet he hadn’t a clue.”

“Do you still think of him that way, as a brother?”

“Yes and no.” Morgana stared down at her lap. “In the sense that he is Uther’s son, he is not my brother, but he is not like the other alphas. His smell did not stand out to me. I couldn’t conceive of thinking of him in that way. Or even playing at it.” Morgana’s face was knotted in a grimace.

“What? You mean like a mate?”

“No. We’re not blood, but still... it limits my plan, which is why I need your help.”

“Morgana, I do not think I am in a state to help anyone right now.” Merlin rested his chin on his knees.

“Oh, right. What happened to you? You look as pale as your robe.”

“A king, a knight, and a lord kissed me. And well, one of them is my mate.”

“You kissed three—oh. Oh. You sensed your mate!” Morgana’s smile was huge, and she eagerly grabbed up Merlin’s hand. “This only makes my plan more perfect.”

“You still haven’t told me what plan.”

“It’s simple. I don’t want Pendragon leaving this ball with an omega. He doesn’t deserve one of us. Nothing would make me happier than if that entire bloodline ended in blank parchment.”

“Ooo-kay.” Merlin wasn’t about to question Morgana when she was so wound.

“And I want to make a spell, a potion, actually, but it will take the better part of the next three days.”

“What sort of potion?”

“Just your run-of-the-mill love potion.” Morgana grinned. “One that will make Pendragon only desire you—and yet, you will have no need of him. Not when you already have a mate to love.”

Merlin couldn’t help his cringe. “That’s a little cold.” 

“Uther has killed countless of our kind. He’s lucky enough of my compassion remains that I don’t kill his son.”

Well, when Morgana put it that way...

“So, you’ll help me?” Morgana begged, tightening her grip on Merlin’s hand.

“Well, I don’t like it, but I can flirt a little and show up at the right time. I’ve already kissed three men today, why not add a fourth?” Merlin muttered, throwing up his hands.

Morgana laughed, scooting up alongside him so she could rest her head on his shoulder. “I want details on the three men. Who was the king?”

“Cenred.”

Morgana’s shoulders fell back. “Oh, by reputation he’s a bastard, but he’s Uther’s enemy, which instantly gives him a few extra notches on the scale. He’s got gorgeous arms, doesn’t he?”

“So you like him then?”

Morgana rolled her eyes. “He’s one that is almost entirely interested in male omegas—all three of you—although I’ve heard he’s mad for sorcery in general. He has a court sorcerer under his employ. It was the reason that Uther could never forge an alliance with him.”

“Anyone else you’re interested in?”

Morgana pouted her bottom lip out. “If I meet my mate, then fine, my destiny shall be met, but otherwise, I’m in no rush. I liked living with the druids. I see no reason to saddle myself with some idiot alpha and regular pregnancies when I have my freedom here.”

“Did the druids give you visions?” Merlin asked curiously.

Morgana gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t need the druids for visions. I have enough of them on my own.”

“So you’ve seen...”

“Never my mate. Never. Although, a few nights ago, I did have a vision. I saw myself in one of the darker coves of the forest. A lantern gave the only light, and I was bent over a steaming cauldron with a blood-colored potion bubbling inside, and now, Merlin, now I know why. You see, I don’t need to seek my mate at this ball. The downfall of the Pendragons shall be my sole mission.”

Merlin stared wide-eyed at Morgana. It was a good thing, he decided, that he was her friend, because otherwise, she could be rather scary.

\- - - -

Arthur had pretty much had it. After Merlin had dashed out of the clearing, Gwaine had taken to ribbing him constantly, which Arthur normally would have brushed off easily. Gwaine was simply being jealous. Arthur was obviously the more talented at everything. Except that Gwaine kept mentioning Merlin over and over again. Merlin this. Merlin that. With each mention, Arthur’s head swam. Heat roared in his lungs. His dick hardened.

And it was especially annoying because after Merlin ran off, Arthur and Gwaine still had to go through the lineup of omegas. As it was when he first entered the forest, their smell was barely noticeable, and even in the one instance where a rather aggressive female omega had tickled his nose with a feather—Arthur hadn’t been all that affected. 

No. No. No. Because all he could think about was sodding _Merlin_. And that noise he’d made. Or hell, the way he’d looked bent back over the log with flakes of leaves in his hair as Arthur had pushed him down.

Arthur was so distracted that he almost even missed that his step-sister was standing in front of him, dressed in white, and smelling startlingly different than the last time he’d been in her presence.

“Arthur!” Morgana shouted, looking at him like he was a ghost.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in turn, and that was about the same time that he realized how dangerous this was. He leaned in close to her. “Oh, and I’m not Arthur-Arthur. I’m Arthur of Dorstag, from, you know, Olaf’s kingdom.”

Morgana stared at him as if he’d truly lost his mind. “I see.” And then she looked at Gwaine. “And who’s this?” 

“Sir Gwaine, my lady.” Gwaine had to go and introduce himself with far too much enthusiasm, given that this was Arthur’s sister.

Arthur gave him an elbow in kidney for his troubles.

Morgana was eying Gwaine in that critical way she had. “You’re new. Only recently titled.”

“Arthur made me.” Gwaine sighed dramatically.

“I’ve missed you,” Arthur said. “And just well, I had no idea _this_ is why you left. Father said you were going to study at a convent—which made no sense, especially when you didn’t come back after a week. But Holy Mary, I would have never guessed—you’re an omega! How are your headaches? Were they because of... you know?” Arthur makes a motion with his hand. It’s weird. Once upon a time he could have told Morgana anything, but now there was this barrier between them. They had both grown up. 

“My headaches no longer ail me.” Morgana’s smile wasn’t at all like Arthur remembered. 

“It’s good to see you,” Arthur said. “I know Father misses you.”

“That’s kind.” Morgana nodded, looking over her shoulder. “If you wish to keep your cover, you shouldn’t stay long with me.”

“Oh, right. But we’ll see you again?” It was Gwaine asking again.

“You shall see me.”

And after the insane meeting with Morgana, Gaius had finally caught them, leading them to the edge of the alpha camp. “Better to choose a tent on the outskirts of the alpha’s area, si—I mean, my Lord,” Gaius said, catching himself. “There are more than a few in the area who might recognize you.”

Arthur was ready to get this whole ridiculous affair over with. He’d go to the silly dance and find Merlin. After he got a dance out of him, he’d get a yes out of him, and after Arthur got his first “yes,” he was going to get a hundred more. Preferably, at high decibels. But yes, first, they’d get back to Camelot. Do the whole ceremonial thing so Merlin couldn’t go around kissing other men. Arthur was done quite with that. And then Arthur wondered if Father would be weirded out about him coming home with a male omega—but then Father had said that even the males were “charming.” 

Not that Merlin was charming. Pfft. 

Merlin was... oh Arthur couldn’t even describe it. 

A sassy mouthed, red-cheeked, little slut was what he was. And Arthur just couldn’t wait to get his hands on him again. He’d throw him down and Merlin would fight back. Because he was Merlin. But Arthur would knock him down and then he would breed him until he was absolutely leaking with his—

AND OH MY GOD. ARTHUR WAS GOING CRAZY.

That evil little omega was possessing Arthur.

After all, Arthur didn’t use that word, “slut.” He was raised with _manners_.

This was all Merlin’s fault.

Arthur needed—

He needed—

Well, oh dear.

Both Gwaine and Gaius were staring at him with open mouths. Apparently, he’d been muttering under his breath. Possibly stomp-pacing. Maybe, hissing out curses?

“I’m going to go dunk my head in a water trough,” Arthur said. 

Gwaine nodded sympathetically.

And then Arthur went and did just that.

\- - - -

When he came back, he asked Gaius whether or not they should begin preparing for the dance.

“Dance, My Lord?”

“The ball.”

“Oh, well, it isn’t exactly a normal ball.” Gaius was watching Arthur with apprehension, as if expecting him to snap at any moment. “It’s more of a festival with organized events. At the end, yes, there is a dance. Of sorts. On Beltane.”

“Beltane is four days away.” Arthur closed his eyes and reminded himself that screaming was not princely behavior.

“Aye, My Lord. I believe tonight’s event will be focused around music.”

Arthur went and dunked his head in the trough again.

\- - - -

It was later that evening after Gwaine had handed Arthur a flask of clear liquid (Arthur didn’t question the source, just chugged it down.) and Gaius had plied him with some soothing tea, that Arthur finally calmed down enough to get his thoughts in order.

There was to be a bonfire gathering in one of the larger meadows. Whoever wanted to could sing or play an instrument, and it was there that the alphas and omegas could mingle under the chaperoned eyes of the druids. 

Arthur put on the white garments that the druids supplied, and no matter that Gwaine kept wanting to fuss over his hair (an alpha, Arthur’s arse), they were among the first to the meadow.

But then Arthur couldn’t find Merlin.

There were at least four bonfires going. A druid minstrel was singing something disturbingly sinister about breaking axes down to splinters at one, and at the second, three flaxen-haired omega females were singing, if not well then charmingly, about love and such things. Arthur didn’t care. He wanted Merlin. The third bonfire had a fiddle. Not so bad, that, but it didn’t have Merlin.

It was at the fourth bonfire that Arthur found him.

The firelight was flickering golden across Merlin’s cheekbones, and his head was thrown up as he laughed.

He looked perfect.

Or so Arthur thought.

Until he stepped in closer and saw that the reason Merlin was laughing was because bloody Cenred was there. And if that wasn’t enough, Arthur watched in pure fury as Cenred picked up Merlin’s hand and leaned down to kiss his wrist.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, there's an NC17 rating on this chapter.

Morgana ditched Merlin. She ran off and set up her cauldron in some shroomy cave down by the river, so Merlin ended up going to the bonfire pageant all by his lonesome. He’d even offered to help her lug water, but no, no, no, Morgana had insisted that he should go ahead, saying she would just use magic if any heavy lifting was required.

He assured her that he did, in fact, have magic too. But she’d smacked his bottom and told him to go yodel something pastoral.

Naturally, Merlin went and chose the bonfire with the most food. Besides the typical cornucopia of forest fruits, there was an actual delicious lamb twisting on a spit. The two alphas who were managing it (the druids would have _nothing_ to do with meat) were shaving off bits, and Merlin had no problem parking himself on a smooth stone less than a foot away and holding out his knife for regular servings of lamb kebob. 

One of the alphas was named Lancelot, and Merlin really liked him. This was partially because Lancelot was the only alpha he’d met so far who hadn’t egregiously either hit on Merlin or tried to shovel his tongue down his throat.

It took two minutes for Merlin to figure out why this was so.

Lancelot handed him a rather delicious slice of shank before shyly asking, “Have you met many of the other omegas?”

“A few,” Merlin managed between chews, but then, he realized he was being thick. “Um, anyone in particular?”

Lancelot rubbed at the back of his neck before leaning forward to cut another slice of glistening meat. “There’s one maid, but...”

“Buhhhht...” Merlin pressed him.

“It’s pure fantasy. I have neither title nor wealth.”

“You’re not a knight?” Merlin sure thought Lancelot looked like a knight. In fact, with his earnest smile, neatly defined muscles, and soulful black eyes, Merlin thought Lancelot was the knightliest knight he’d ever met. “And what’s the girl’s name? Pray tell.” Merlin leaned Lancelot’s way, grinning.

“I am not a knight, and the maiden of whom I spoke... Her name is Gwen.” Lancelot ducked his head again, as if the smoke was bothering his eyes. 

Merlin wasn’t fooled for a second. That was a blush if he ever saw one. “Well, there’s this guy, Gwaine. He didn’t used to be a knight, but now he is. I don’t think he ever had a title. I wonder if he could help you. Oh, and I can totally find Gwen. Try to put in a good word.”

Also, see if this girl was worth it. Because none of the omegas from his druid camp would have been worth Lancelot. 

“That is rather gracious of you.” Lancelot positively beamed at him, before handing Merlin a small hunk of tenderloin.

Which Merlin thought was the best thanks possible.

“And I found you,” a familiar voice said.

And Lancelot and Merlin both turned to see Cenred—or yes, _King_ Cenred.

“Oh, hi, um—” Merlin wondered if Cenred wanted to be addressed as Sire or King or Your Majesty.

“Cenred is fine. Formalities have no place here.” Cenred said this even as he seated himself next to Merlin and held out his knife to Lancelot, waiting to be served.

Still, Merlin might as well take advantage of the opportunity. “Lancelot would make a good knight, don’t you think?”

“And what makes you say that? Tell me, Merlin, do I have competition?”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Lancelot’s heart is set on another. I just think he’s a good man.”

Lancelot lowered his eyes again. Merlin could tell how unnerved he was by Cenred’s presence and possibly Merlin’s compliment.

Cenred forced a smile, teasingly begging, “If not him, then tell me, from where does my competition source?”

Merlin wondered if Cenred thought he was utterly empty in the head. Like he’d go about confessing about Arthur. “And why are you bothering me? There are lots of omegas in this camp who’d love to bag a king.” For proof of this, Merlin glanced up and indeed, some of the hemlocked shrews that were in Merlin’s camp were standing off to the side, positively glaring in his direction. 

“Bothering you? I’m _bothering_ you?” Cenred laughed. “You aren’t afraid of me. That’s so enticing.”

Merlin couldn’t stop his own mouth. “Do I have a reason to fear you?”

“Oh, my little omega, are you so naive?” But the way Cenred said it, he was not offended. Though his lips were oiled from the meat, Cenred wet them again like he was already contemplating dessert. 

Merlin thought Cenred was about to go into a dull, long unrolling of the _me-me_ parchment, listing off all the terrible, big reasons that Merlin should be afraid of his fearsome-alpha-king-self, but to his credit, Cenred paused. “And yet you managed to escape to the druid camps—a three day journey, too. And not a single one of my men was able to track you. They said you disappeared like a specter. Inexplicable. Do you know how few omegas do that untainted? Tell me how you managed it. Was it with a knife?” His eyes seized upon the twisted metal in Merlin’s hand.

“We used the tree tops—and herbs,” Merlin said, which was true. Technically.

“I don’t believe you,” Cenred said. “Unless... Tell me, was your mother a sorceress?”

“She is not.” But Merlin knew his features were tense when he answered.

This was when Cenred leaned in close. “You know, the druids watch you. Even now, even though they hate the scent of flesh over fire, some are gathered at the edge of this camp, and their eyes cast your way.”

Merlin could hear their thoughts in the background. The younger druids. They were trying to sense if Cenred was Emrys’s mate. 

_Stop being so obvious_ , Merlin more or less mind-yelled at them.

Which was naturally when they all shuffled their eyes skyward and started whistling bird songs.

Cenred missed none of this. “Oh, I think I want you very badly.”

“Um, that’s a little forward don’t you think?”

“We only have four days.”

“You’re not my mate,” Merlin said laughingly, even as he backed away. “There’s no supernatural tug going on here.” Nope, he already had a stupid golden-haired prat to fill that role.

But Cenred caught his wrist and ugh, it felt _wrong_ as Cenred’s long, black braids fell across Merlin’s forearms, causing gooseflesh to erupt. And it felt even more wrong when Cenred bent low and his lips brushed against Merlin’s pulse point, the wet press far too soft with Merlin’s blood racing beneath.

Merlin jerked his head away, because somehow looking made it worse, and that was when he saw—oh tar and feathers— _Arthur_ on the other side of the fire. Arthur, who looked positively murderous and gorgeous and more importantly, ready to charge down Cenred. 

The only reason he had not yet done so was that Gwaine had an arm over him, effectively stopping any regicide.

“Lancelot!” Merlin piped, jerking his wrist away from Cenred and snatching up a piece of meat. “Do you sing?”

“Sing?” Lancelot asked.

“Yes.” Merlin nodded emphatically, and then he turned to Cenred. “You two should sing together. Something peppy. About slaughtering boulder-sized monsters. Or deflowering country maidens. Or a legendary weapon’s forge. That sort of thing.”

Over Cenred’s shoulder, Merlin watched as Arthur managed nearly to twist free of Gwaine’s grip.

“Merlin...” Lancelot started to decline, but then he finally caught on that Merlin was this side of desperate. “Um, if someone has a reed, I can play. My singing voice is lacking.”

“A reed! Yes!” Merlin said, and he reached behind him, feeling around in the grass until his hands wrapped around a small branch. He closed his eyes and focused on the transformation. When he brought the branch back around, it was a functional reed. “Happened to have one on me.” He shoved it at Lancelot.

“How did you get that?” Cenred was scrubbing his hands together, and peering around Merlin, as if trying to catch him in the act a second time.

“The druids like to force musical instruments on people. It’s their thing.” Merlin nodded emphatically. “And you’ll sing won’t you, Cenred? Put that alpha baritone to work.”

Hunith had always said that praising a man in front of his peers was surest way to make him do anything stupid, and it would seem that she was right, because Cenred sighed, as if he was being terribly put upon, yet he asked Lancelot, “You know the one about the witch with her army of undead and the warlord who got betrayed?”

The moment Lancelot started in with the piping, it was like everything snapped. All the female omegas who’d been glaring at Merlin were instantly there—crowded around Cenred and Lancelot with batting eyelashes and fawning smiles. 

Merlin allowed himself to back away to the edge of circle. Out of Cenred’s line of sight. In that spot, he barely lasted to the first stanza of the canticle before he found himself being yanked backward beyond the light from the bonfire and heaved over a shoulder.

“Arthur,” Gwaine was hissing, “You’re drawing attention to yourself. Put him down.”

“Must. Get. Him. Away.” Arthur’s voice was all growl. It sounded a little terrifying.

Merlin didn’t know what it said about him that he enjoyed it terribly.

“It’s okay, Gwaine,” Merlin insisted. 

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s not.” Gwaine was jogging to keep up with the pace of Arthur’s strides.

“Seriously, it’s fine. Arthur and I only need to chat. I’m painted in protective sylvan enchantments. Just give us a minute alone. He’ll calm down. It will be better.”

In the end, it wasn’t that Gwaine acquiesced so much as Arthur ran impossibly faster, and Gwaine tripped on a root. So anyway, Arthur carried Merlin deep into the forest until the floating sounds of the pipes and fiddles quieted to a faint hum. It was in a glade lit only by moonlight that they found themselves at last alone.

\- - - -

“You are so annoying,” Arthur said, because it was the first declaration that came to mind.

Not to mention that it was completely, earth-shatteringly true.

Merlin, arms crossed and sprawled on the grassy forest floor, did not seem particularly impressed by this confession.

So Arthur decided to impress him. He caught Merlin by the ankles and yanked him closer. This had the effect of causing Merlin’s robe to ride up on his thighs, and heavens, all that pale skin with those finely-lined muscles. It was impossible not to grab on either side and slide his hands upward, feeling the texture of the taut flesh. But that wasn’t the best part. The best part was the eagerness with which Merlin leaned into it. And how he grabbed at the Arthur’s face and yanked their mouths together, like he couldn’t wait to taste Arthur again.

No matter that their teeth clicked and Merlin’s nails might be uncomfortably digging in to Arthur’s scalp, it was brilliant. Merlin smelled brilliant. He tasted brilliant. The noises he made were brilliant.

“How the hell are you doing this to me?” Arthur demanded, in between sucks on Merlin’s collarbone (because really, _priorities_ ).

“You know why.” Merlin groaned out, even as he arched his neck back to give Arthur better access.

“None of the other omegas smell like you.”

“And none of the other alphas smell like you.”

“Not even King Cenred?” Arthur couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice.

Merlin, the twit, cracked a smile. “Oh, he’s a prat. Not as big of a prat as you, but—”

Arthur shoved Merlin down into the dirt for good measure. “I’ve never felt like this—I feel bloody _enchanted_.”

Merlin’s face darkened. “It’s not magic. It’s, well, you know...”

Arthur shook his head. It was all too confusing. He wasn’t sure he knew anything, well, except that he wanted Merlin with every thread of his existence. To demonstrate this, he bent to kiss Merlin again.

But Merlin held him back. And in a quite small voice, Merlin said, “It’s because you're my mate.”

Oh. _Oh._

“So we can have sex?” he clarified.

“Um, not here.” Merlin was frowning at him.

Frowning made no sense. If Merlin was his mate, he should want Arthur to mount him as soon as possible, shouldn’t he? Wasn’t that how it worked? Arthur didn’t think it would be appropriate to ask Gaius about this one. 

Instead, he poked a finger in the center of Merlin’s chest. “Do you not want to have sex? I know you’re an omega and all, but you must have male instincts, too. Surely, you want to have sex.”

“Did you not hear the part about druid enchantments?” 

“But I found you. We’re cosmically bound, and you know, Merlin, it’s our duty to obey such stirrings of the greater order. It would be honoring a sacrament of both the Old and New Religious.”

Arthur thought his words noble, lyrical even, but Merlin was gaping at him with double-cocked eyebrows like Arthur had just announced something ridiculous, like gruel for a wedding feast.

Since words were failing him, Arthur made a go for Merlin’s lips again. And well, that wiped the cock-eyed look off of Merlin’s face, because Arthur had mastered kissing like he’d mastered beheading his enemies (even if gaining the knowledge involved the sacrifice of consorting with an aggressive scullery maid and a strange procedure with butter churn). And Arthur’s skill was paying off in spades at the moment, because yeah, Merlin was skinny hips in his hands, but into the back of Arthur’s mouth, Merlin was all sharp tongue and hot pants in Arthur’s ear and with their bodies hard and pressed, it felt so so good. 

Getting Merlin’s robe off wasn’t that difficult, there were laces and fabric that kept bunching in annoying ways, but at some point, Merlin just said, “Oh, enough.” And with skill Arthur didn’t know he possessed, Merlin pulled some string, and the fabric was out of the way.

Then well, it was a feast, because Arthur could get at the moon lit skin below, at the perky little nipples, and the smooth bumps of Merlin’s abdomen. Merlin had a stomach like an acrobat’s, devoid of any fat, and boyishly slender, and Arthur wondered how it would change once he was bred, because he couldn’t imagine Merlin being anything but perfect. Maybe, just, another kind of perfect.

He might have been staring too much. Because Merlin made a frustrated noise, and Arthur, this time was the one pushed back. Merlin grabbed his hand and shoved it down Merlin’s unlaced breeches—and Arthur had a fist of hard Merlin. He squeezed.

Merlin’s eyes rolled back, looked golden despite the silver of the moon, and he said, “Don’t stop. Oh, please.”

Arthur used his free hand to yank at the back of Merlin’s breeches, and even as he tugged at Merlin from the front, yanking up on the flesh, he slid a hand behind…

Only to feel a sting. Like his hand had been slapped.

“Ow!” Arthur yelled.

“Stop trying to—and keep trying to—” Merlin said through gritted teeth. “I told you. Druid protections.”

Arthur wasn’t going to try again. That sting felt like a warning. Another try and…

But then he had another idea. “Undo me,” he said.

Merlin nodded and did something where he pulled at all of the laces at once, and despite having closed eyes, somehow managed to untie them perfectly.

Arthur shuffled his breeches down, so that he loosed himself. The effect of the nighttime cool on his prick only made him harder, and then yes, he crawled back over Merlin, their mutual heat feeling delicious despite the sweat it created, and Arthur snuggled in close, getting them lined up perfectly, so that he could look down and gaze into Merlin’s light eyes. 

Merlin smiled at him, somehow looking both amused and aroused, but then his eyes went white as Arthur pushed down, his larger cock rubbing sweetly against Merlin’s. Then, less sweetly. For Arthur went harder and faster, grinding them just so. They didn’t kiss but their lips feather-brushed with each wave, and when Merlin was close, Arthur knew it because Merlin smashed his face into Arthur’s neck, licking and biting, like Arthur was the final ingredient. 

Merlin came with a keening sound, with his neck craned at tense angle and holding onto Arthur so tightly. 

Arthur took a minute longer, digging his fingers into the moss for leverage so that when his knot started to swell, he rubbed it across Merlin’s soft washboard for greater friction. And yes, the friction was what he needed, because the world went white, then hot. Arthur’s head was swirling and he wasn’t sure—he may have bitten Merlin’s shoulder—and at last he could feel the release, and he was coming and coming.

When he was finally able to look about not cross-eyed, he saw that he’d done so all over Merlin’s stomach.

“That was a bit rude, yeah?” Merlin said, but the usual edge of sarcasm was cut off by how sleepy and satisfied he sounded.

Arthur ran his finger through some of the mess, making a swirl, before bringing the finger to his nose, where it smelled like…

Merlin was _his_.

“Oh no, it’s some alpha thing. You like that don’t you?” Merlin looked ready to groan.

“You’re my mate. Don’t you like it?”

For the first time, Arthur thought he saw Merlin blush.

“See.” Arthur was so very right about this.

“You are the biggest prat in all Five Kingdoms.”

“I think so,” Arthur said, looking down in his lap.

Merlin snorted, but he was also looking down at Arthur. And he liked what he saw. Arthur could bloody smell it.

Arthur was pretty sure he was about one minute from being able to go again. “Okay, that’s it. Let’s go sign the parchment and get out of here. The druids will remove that horrible enchantment. Cenred will leave you the bloody fuck alone, and I’ll have you in my castle, all to myself, and we won’t emerge for weeks.” 

Arthur grabbed his breeches and went about tying them up. 

Merlin did the same and then pulled his robe back over his head, but he didn’t have the same happy expression that Arthur did.

“What?” Arthur asked.

“It just doesn’t work that way. We have to finish the ball. Plus, I can’t leave. I promised to help a friend.”

“You can help a friend after.”

“Doesn’t matter. The druids’ protections will last for the duration of the ball. They won’t let us leave. It’s part of the rules.”

Arthur pinched the skin between his brows. “Merlin, if Cenred lays another hand on you, I’ll maim him. If he puts his lips on you again, I will kill him.”

Merlin brushed the leaves off his legs and stood, ignoring Arthur’s offered hand. “I can handle Cenred. And you can’t kill other alphas in the ball. I mean it. It would end with your own death. It’s part of the protections that are in place.” 

Arthur thought very hard about how to find a way around this. No one could find out who Arthur was. That would be bad. Yet he had to protect Merlin.

Why did Merlin have to be so popular?

Because he was perfect. If, in a git-like way.

In Arthur’s perfect git-like way.

“Fine,” he snapped, though he feared it totally came out soppy.

\- - - -

Despite Arthur’s many complaints, Merlin finally got himself washed up in a stream. He fished the leaves out of Arthur's hair and vehemently insisted that they head back to the bonfires.

Not that Merlin really wanted to go back. 

He had to keep it clamped down, though. Must not touch Arthur’s unbelievably soft hair. Must not test experimental grips on his biceps. Or ogle the shape of his thighs.

Give Arthur an inch and he’d take, well, Merlin was pretty sure he’d take Merlin on all fours for hours on end, no matter the location or how many people. Not advisable.

When they entered into the camp again, it was to run almost directly into Lancelot and a pretty dark-haired omega.

“Merlin,” Lancelot said, rising with a smile. “May I present—?”

“Gwen.” But it was Arthur who said it. Looking to be at a total loss, he had his hands held open out to the sides. “Is this where all the girls have been disappearing to over the past few years. I thought you’d left with Morgana. I didn’t realize that you were an omega, too!”

Merlin had only just begun to process that sentence when streaming out of the forest, did in fact come Morgana. A small, rather suspicious looking leather satchel thrown over her shoulder. 

“Gwen, you remember Arthur from _Olaf’s kingdom_.” Morgan tossed her hair over her shoulder, like she was so very suave.

Merlin saw right through it, but poor Gwen looked absolutely terrified. Lancelot, meanwhile, was studiously examining Arthur’s face like he’d just had a revelation.

Arthur looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight back and forth, like he didn’t know what to say. “You know Merlin?” he asked Morgana.

“I adore Merlin,” Morgana said, and she cast a smile at him, one that was strangely enthusiastic. 

“Oh, well, that’s good because I adore Merlin too.” 

“Do you? Well, it’s too bad I have to steal him then—also Gwen.” And Morgana stepped forward to rest a hand on Gwen’s shoulder and yank at Merlin’s sleeve, “but the night is late and we must retire.”

“Oh, don’t be so bossy, Morgana. They can go when they want to.”

“Ever the prat.” She sighed. “You really haven’t grown up at all, have you?”

Arthur snorted but smiled. “I really did miss you.”

Epiphanies are nasty little things.

Because his Arthur and his Morgana weren’t supposed to be so familiar. They weren’t supposed to be like brother and sister. Because Morgana’s pseudo step-brother was the prince of Camelot. He was Uther’s son. 

It was because his brain was absolutely scrambled that Morgana pulled him away from Arthur so easily and lead him back to the omega tents.

Gwen was whispering excitedly with Morgana. Something about Camelot. Something about secret identities and stealing pastries from the kitchens.

But it was only when Merlin and Morgana were alone and she grabbed him, hugging with a delightful laugh that he was certain. 

“Merlin, you are so brilliant. You have him absolutely besotted. Besotted. With a crook of your little finger. I love you so much.”

“Arthur Pendragon.”

“Of course,” she said still laughing, but then she paused, leaning toward him, as if sensing his distress.

Merlin was nodding. He couldn’t do anything but nod. “Because he’s Uther’s son. And he kills sorcerers.”

“Cuts their throats,” Morgana said bitterly, before stepping in close again. She pulled Merlin’s head to her shoulder. “Is it too much? I forget how sensitive you can be.”

“No—I—I’m just—“

“Oh, you didn’t get to spend any time with your mate, did you? Are you certain of who it is now? Not Cenred, surely. You would have said. Was it that knight we met with, Lancelot?”

Merlin didn’t know how to respond.

Morgana shook her head and bent to kiss his brow. “Oh, fear not. You’ll know him soon enough. For, if there were ever a soul in the world that deserved happiness, it would be you, my friend.”


	5. Chapter 5

Merlin didn't sleep. Instead he lay curled up on his bedroll, playing with a small white feather. Between his fingers, the feather transformed from feather to snake scale to fish fin—and then back again. To Merlin, the shapes were all connected. The scale, feather, and fin all had parallel purposes, even if the constraints of their environment forced them in different directions. Still, a dragon couldn’t mate with a condor. Just like a whale couldn’t do the nasty with a salamander. In the end, they were too different.

And yet Merlin couldn’t stop thinking about Arthur. His ruthless fingers. His stupid, posh airs. It made Merlin wonder if there had been a cosmic mistake. How could a magic-hating prince expect to live a happy life with a village sorcerer? 

Merlin expected to turn around at any moment and see the whole world laughing at him.

Instead he was woken up at sunrise with his nostrils itching. Morgana had found his feather, and she was tickling him awake.

Evil bint.

He gave a sleepy swat, but that didn’t work. (Morgana easily dodged him.) 

Since sleep was the ultimate priority, Merlin didn’t hesitate to unleash the spare blanket in the room, roll Morgana up in it, and rather satisfactorily suspend her shrieking form from the ceiling.

And with that, Merlin pulled his pillow over his head, pulling a cloud of air about his ears to block the sounds.

Except that the flaps of the tent parted, letting in blinding white light.

Merlin lifted his pillow to see a rather astounded looking older man poking his head in. By his scent (mild, even a bit medicinal), he was neither alpha nor omega, but there was something about his aura...

“You’re a sorcerer?” Merlin assessed grumpily, but he made himself sit up and flicked his hand so that the overhead blanket unrolled and Morgana slid to the floor.

But it was Morgana who answered. “He’s not a sorcerer. He’s Camelot’s physician. Hello, Gaius.”

“Morgana,” Gaius said, and Merlin didn’t miss that he was looking at her in a way that contained equal parts nostalgia and apology.

“What do you want?” Morgana began forking at the ends of her hair, working to get out the tangles caused by Merlin’s magic. “And it’s unkind to go barging into people’s tents. They’re private.”

“I meant no harm,” Gaius said. “I wished to see you. You have been missed.”

Morgana stopped her combing, and her eyes flashed. “Missed alive or dead? You always knew what I was.”

Gaius sighed. “I did know. And I have missed our conversations. No young lady has asked me the best way to hamstring a knight in five odd years. A great and terrible pity.”

Morgana’s glare softened and her mouth twisted ever so subtly. “Hamstrings are for horses. A daggered boot tip is a lady’s secret. Should a lady ever find herself in peril, she should pout her lips, then aim for the kneecap.”

“Or if the threat is not immediate...?” Gaius prompted.

“Keep some poison always on hand. Serve tea, possibly fruit cake with ‘special preserves.’” Morgana was biting her lip now, looking resentfully fond.

Gaius smiled. “I’m not your enemy, Morgana. I never will be.”

Yet Morgana’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. “You serve Uther.”

“By serving Uther I kept you—and others—safe.”

“But innocents still die.”

“He would never harm you, Morgan. It wouldn’t be possible. He loves you.”

Morgana turned away, and though Merlin couldn’t see her face, her voice sounded strangled when she said, “That’s not good enough.”

“No, perhaps not.”

The silence in the tent was horrible. Morgana was crying and Gaius looked like he wanted to hug her but couldn’t. And to be honest, it was really too much for Merlin on no-sleep.

“I’m Merlin,” he said, rubbing at his eyes.

Gaius broke his focus on Morgana and turned to face him. “Yes, Hunith told me I would find you here.”

“You know my mother?” And Merlin had thought the day couldn’t get any weirder.

“I do, but I think we can discuss it later. You and Morgana need to prepare for the day.”

“You won’t tell Arthur,” Morgana cut in. Her eyes were on Merlin. “I know you feel loyalty to him, but he can’t know that Merlin and I have magic.”

“I would not betray your confidence, Morgana. I never have.”

Morgana gave a stiff nod, after which Gaius took his leave.

\- - - -

“We’re short on time,” Morgana said, waving her hand over the gathered logs so that they began to smoke.

There wasn’t enough kindle, so Merlin gave the logs an extra bump in heat, and then the whole stack began to properly burn.

Morgana opened the sack at her side, but not before rolling her eyes at Merlin. “And what’s so annoying about you is that you’d never seen a spell book until a year ago.”

“You haven’t known about your magic as long as I have,” Merlin said.

Morgana snorted but waved Merlin closer to her, where she had an old spell book splayed open in her lap with an additional parchment unrolled at her side. “This is the potion I was talking about it.”

Merlin peered over her shoulder at the letters. “It’s ancient.” He didn’t recognize the script at all.

“I know. I’ve been using this parchment to translate it. Watch.” She said a few words of revealing beneath her breath, focusing her energy on the parchment, and when the scroll began to glow, she directed the energy to the open book. Small gold letters began appearing in the air:

_Moon-harvested truffles ... elderberries … rosehip mash … lavender buds ... sweet cicely … diodgriafel from Mountain ash …_

“It sounds delicious, honestly.” Merlin thought he could use a sip right now.

“It probably tastes fine,” Morgana agreed, “But that’s not why I wanted your help. It’s these words that are the problem.” She tapped at the large bold phrase in the center of the page that Merlin didn’t recognize. “It’s translating as _cor fons_ , but I’m not sure that’s right, because ‘fons’ normally uses a different word in the Old Religion. I think this must be an actual object. How else would I use it in the potion, otherwise?”

Merlin nodded. “Well, it’s probably the grounding object. There’s no hair or blood in the potion to create a link to the, er, intended love interest.” 

Morgana ignored Merlin’s heavy cringe. “I’m certain it’s by sight. Why the mirror with the moon reflected overhead, otherwise?”

It made sense. Merlin nodded.

“Can you try the translation? Your magic is different than mine. I thought you might get a better read.” She bit her lip and smiled hopefully at him.

It would seem he would be the maker of his own tomb. He yanked the book out of her lap, not bothering with the parchment scroll that Morgana tried to push at him. Brushing his fingers over the words on the page, he let them seep beneath his skin, race through his veins, so that when he took another breath, he opened his palms and the symbols were there throbbing with intention. Merlin whispered the word “saltare,” and the lines danced and looped, until shining golden cloud formed in the air above them. But then the cloud shaped itself into a face and it started to rain.

“Tears,” Morgana whispered. “It requires tears.”

“The more truly let, the stronger the potion.” And oh, what was he doing? He couldn’t imagine Arthur in such pain.

“Well, this will be fun. I get to make a boy cry,” Morgan said and then laughed.

Merlin didn’t laugh, for as the last tear fell, the face above melted, but not before leaving a different impression in Merlin’s mind. Like a smile.

Merlin wasn’t at all sure that Morgana’s potion did what she thought it was going to do. And for some reason, Merlin couldn’t bring himself to tell her.

\- - - -

Arthur couldn’t believe his ears. “They want us to do what?”

“It’s better than making daisy chains,” Gwaine piped, even as he twisted yet another stem around his fifth daisy.

“It’s an old tradition at the ball,” Gaius continued, calmly. “As alphas tend to harbor aggression, the druids found that sporting events were an excellent way to vent such frustrations, avoiding needless violence.”

Arthur didn’t see that the violence was anything but necessary. Especially when his thoughts turned toward Cenred. “And this is why I have to bob around naked in a river? So that I can throw balls through hoops?”

“It is very popular with the omegas. It is said that the winner never leaves without a mate.”

“I have a mate,” Arthur snapped.

“I wouldn’t be advertising that too loudly just yet, Sire.” Gaius cast a suspicious glance around them. 

“And Merlin could still change his mind,” Gwaine added.

Arthur took a deep calming breath and reminded himself that it had now been eight days since Gwaine was in a proper tavern. “It doesn’t work that way. He’s mine.” 

“Or maybe it’s just that you’re worried that I’ll kick your arse.” Gwaine’s smile was all teeth.

“When have you ever?” Arthur snarled back.

Gwaine grinned wickedly. “Just wait, you’ll see. I am a fish.”

\- - - -  
Curse the druids. Curse their stupid magical games. And mostly, curse Cenred of Essiter from cradle until death.

Also, if one more foot came in the proximity of Arthur’s genitalia, he was going to punch someone.

Oh, and lastly, because there was so much to fume about, curse Gwaine for ending up on Cenred’s team instead of Arthur’s. The absolute traitor.

At least he had Lancelot on his team.

Despite his local accent, Arthur thought Lancelot must have river nymph in his lineage, because whatever Gwaine might claim about his hand-paddling skills, Lancelot was the one who moved like a creature of the deep. 

Arthur would start with the ball. A pile-up of other alphas would charge the line, the wave of men and water causing a massive, unsettling smack, and then somehow, Lancelot would slip right through, and no matter how the other team tried to catch him, he was always open for Arthur’s toss.

At first, Arthur had thought by starting the toss, he would be able to maintain both his anonymity and the safety of his manhood.

But then their idiot opponents were down by too many points, and having discovered that attacking Lancelot was nigh impossible, they set their sights on Arthur.

Therefore, when three hulking knights in wedge formation barreled through the line and came right at him, Arthur had to counter-attack. This involved splashing one in the eyes—dunking another—and using the ball to slam the face of the third. (The rules said no fists, but as the ball wasn’t a fist...) And at last, Arthur launched the ball, right into Lancelot’s nimble clutches, and proceeded to win yet another round.

But it was too neatly done.

Because once he got the hair out of his eyes, stupid Cenred revealed himself, and now he was staring at Arthur with far too much speculation. 

“Olaf’s kingdom, you said?” Cenred asks, spitting water.

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Not my problem.”

“You talk like a king to a king, but tell me, did your mother spend her maidenhood in Uther Pendragon’s bed because you have an extreme likeness to—”

It was due to the sudden intervention of Gwaine, who always seemed to know when Arthur was going to punch someone, that Arthur didn’t get kicked out of the match, much less the entire ball.

When he calmed down, Arthur realized it was silly. His parents were married. Naturally, his mother’s maidenhood was spent in his father’s bed. It was just simply not anyone’s place—especially not stupid Cenred’s—to speak on.

Arthur really needed to get out of this infernal forest with Merlin as soon as possible.

The game ended soon enough, and Arthur was able to wash the grime out from his toes, as well as scrape out the river weed that had seemed to nestle in every crinkle between his legs. Berobed and feeling rather proud of his team’s victory, Arthur went and took a spot beside Lancelot in the lakeside meadow.

“We were the best.” Arthur smiled over at Lancelot.

“I appreciated your leadership,” Lancelot said with a nod.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You know perfectly well that we would have drowned without you.”

Lancelot shook his head. “Every throw you made was perfect.”

Arthur shrugged. “So we were both perfect.”

“You’re too kind, Sire.”

Arthur couldn’t help his sharp glance. “I’m a Lord from Olaf’s kingdom.”

Lancelot kept a level stare. “The best knights in the Five Kingdoms are led by Arthur Pendragon. They are not lead by Arthur of Olaf’s Kingdom.”

Oh, well, fine then. “I trust you’ll keep my secret safe? There are many who would not welcome me here.”

“You have my word, but also, I knew last night, when Gwen spoke of you. She had many fair words, and then her shock when you appeared with Merlin, it was too great.”

Arthur waved off the compliments. “You don’t have a title, do you? Otherwise, you’d be a knight by now.”

Lancelot’s smile went tight. “No title.”

Which was annoying. There was no doubt in Arthur’s mind that Lancelot was likely as good with a sword as he was with a polo ball. Not to mention, the calluses on his hands were in the right places with the proper thickness for a man who diligently practiced with swordplay. Arthur was contemplating all the ways he could get Lancelot a title—wartime valor would be a possibility—except that Camelot didn’t have any large scale campaigns going on at the moment. There was always the possibility that Father would finally lose his head at Lord Temel and go about stripping the man of his lands. Were that the case, there would be an opening, surely.

But probably not.

Surely, Lancelot was of noble blood, though. Almost all alpha and omegas were. Or at least until he’d arrived at the ball, that’s what Arthur had thought. He wondered if Lancelot was some Lord’s bastard, but then that would be so rude to ask. Then again, Gwaine had a secret title lurking around that Arthur had needed to dig up. The same could be the case for Lancelot.

Arthur was still deeply contemplating the problem when Lancelot hopped to his feet. Around them, the other alphas also rose, and that’s when Arthur saw that a procession was approaching them. 

Leading the lineup, though he looked less than pleased about it, was Merlin. He was simply dressed, a flowing blue robe was laid across his shoulders. It gave him a rather ethereal cast, as if he was the leader of not just the omegas but the druids as well. As he approached Arthur and Lancelot, Arthur Merlin kept shooting annoyed looks at the druids standing on either side of him.

It was only a moment later that Arthur realized Gwen was ducked behind Merlin, with a small hoop of daisies balanced in her hands.

Merlin began, “Because of his persistent skill...” But then he got to the part about “with no unkindness to his opponents” that Arthur realized that he wasn’t going to be the one to receive the daisy crown (especially since one druid was giving Arthur a stern look), and if it was only that, Arthur could have handled Lancelot du Lac being so honored.

What he could not handle was Merlin, lifting the crown with steady fingers and saying, “The druids shall bless you with the luck of the ancients. You shall not leave this ball without your choice.” 

Arthur had to watch as Merlin laid the flower crown on Lancelot’s black curls. The second it was settled the crown went aglow, the flower buds bursting into full, silver blooms. 

Merlin winked at Lancelot, and then the two ducked their brows together and laughed like they were in on a secret.

Never mind all that chummy team spirit, Arthur _hated_ Lancelot.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some comedic angst. Well, except that it's angst...

Arthur was being an even bigger prat than usual. The glares he was directing at Lancelot were utterly searing, and Lancelot, despite his cheerful smiles, couldn’t not notice the coldness. So, naturally, as soon as the ridiculous ceremony was over, Merlin had to haul Arthur behind a tent flap. 

“Oh, would you stop?” Merlin complained.

“Stop what?” Arthur demanded, even as his head was tossed over his shoulder, glaring in the direction of Lancelot.

“You can’t be that sore of a loser.”

Arthur sniffed. “I didn’t lose. My team won.”

Right. Pratty response. “Which is why you’re still glaring at your teammate.”

Arthur’s chin snapped in Merlin’s direction. “Oh, you mean the part where you and he were all ducked together close with your _secret smiles_.”

“Secret smiles?” Merlin blinked. A lot.

“You smiled and _winked_ at him.”

“Because. Of. Gwen.”

“Gwen?” Flummoxed was a weirdly enchanting look on Arthur.

“Yes, she was standing behind me. She and Lancelot fancy one another pretty intensely. Neither one has said, but I’m pretty sure they’re natural mates.”

“Like us?” Arthur’s face was already brightening. His index finger popped onto his lips. “They’d make a good couple.” Until he grimaced. “Oh Lord, just imagine it. They’re both so nice. It would be sickening, really.”

“So maybe you should consider apologizing...”

But Arthur shut him up by stepping into Merlin’s space and yanking him to his chest. “Merlin, I need to take you out of here. I need to take you home. This place is driving me to insanity.”

“To Camelot?” Merlin asked, even though he knew the answer.

Though he couldn’t see Arthur’s face, he felt Arthur stiffen. “Morgana told you.” 

“Should she not have? Seemed like something I should know.”

“I was going to tell you.” Of course, as he said this bit, he started nibbling on Merlin’s ear. "But it can't be that bad, right? You thought you would be with a Lord, but no, it's with the heir to the throne."

Merlin tried to pull back. “Arthur, don’t do that now.”

“Can’t stop.” And the nibbles progressed into a rather clear cut bite, which pulled on Merlin’s ear lobe.

“What if I don’t want to go to Camelot?”

That stopped the nibbling. Arthur jerked back, eyes narrowed. “And why would you think that? Why wouldn’t you want to go to Camelot?”

Merlin couldn’t meet his eyes. “Camelot hasn’t been kind to the druids.”

Arthur’s lips pressed into a line. “True, in recent history it hasn’t. That’s part of the reason why I am Arthur of Olaf’s kingdom and not Prince Arthur of Camelot.”

“The druids would never harm you. Nor would they let harm come to you. Even after...”

“Is that what this whole _staying_ charade is about—I’m supposed to suffer their good mercy?”

Merlin couldn’t help the anger in his voice. “Someone should have mercy.”

“Are we really arguing about this? About _sorcery_?” The tone that Arthur used, it was like Merlin had brought up diarrhea during pillow talk.

“People can’t help how they’re born, whether they be prince or pauper or sorcerer.”

“Oh, come on, Merlin, I don’t want to argue about this.”

“Maybe I do.”

“You're my mate. Aren’t we supposed to naturally in agreement on these things?”

Merlin shook his head. “If that were the case, why don’t you think what _I_ think? Instead of hating sorcerers, why don’t you open your arms to those who have demonstrated good will? The druids wouldn’t even harm you now. How can you stand by laws that would hurt them?”

“Merlin, my Father’s word is law in Camelot. As prince, it is my duty to uphold the law.”

And somehow, that was worse. Arthur was not actually talking with him about this. He was avoiding any real discussion. “Oh, by that, you mean I’m supposed to blindly agree with whatever you and your tyrant of a father think?”

For the first time, Arthur looks mad. “My father is not a tyrant.”

Good. Merlin’s glad he’s mad because Merlin isn’t finished. “I admire the druids. They are my friends, and I’m not going back to any bloody kingdom just because some funny trigger in me thinks I should jump into the sack with some royal prat with his head stuck up his arse.”

Arthur’s mouth dropped open. “You did not just—” He grabbed for Merlin, but even though Merlin was slower, his magic was too wild to let Arthur touch him.

“I am making a choice. Mate or not. I’m not following you to blasted Camelot.”

And before he could really evaluate the fierce, crushed look on Arthur’s face, Merlin was marching in the opposite direction. When Arthur tried to chase him, a tree root conveniently popped up to catch Arthur’s foot.

Merlin didn’t plan this. He was not even sure if hadn’t just made a horrible mistake. But then he thought— _no_ —this was for the best. Now, he could tell Morgana that Arthur pissed him off so much that his temper broke. Merlin wouldn’t be mixed up in her family shitstorm. Arthur could keep his stupid royal identity concealed, and Cenred would not realize that Merlin’s true mate was Uther Pendragon’s bleeding son. Oh, and lastly, the important part, he wouldn’t find himself burning to death on a wooden pier in Camelot.

There was that.

\- - - - 

In the afternoon, Merlin avoided everyone. This was made easier by the nifty spell book he was working through. Spell books were fantastically useful. It was like drinking water from a cup instead of having to slurp it up by hand. The most recent spell he’d learned, one of seclusion, was being put into full use when he felt what was unmistakably a magical punch at the magical border.

Morgana.

Sighing, he let a hole in the pattern of magic.

“What is that spell? I like it. And where have you been? And—oh, Merlin...” Her hand flew to her mouth. “You look very, very un-Merlin-ly.” And before Merlin could properly scowl at her, her chin drew up at an angle. “Arthur did this, didn’t he? Did you he threaten you in some way? Because I won’t wait for some potion—I will gut him where he stands.”

“No, Morgana. And don’t attack Arthur. We had a fight, that’s all. I mentioned that I knew he was from Camelot and that I didn’t like the whole burning sorcerers at the stake thing—and he was brusque with me, and well, I may have lost my temper.”

Morgana's expression was a mask. “You didn’t do magic in front of him, did you?”

Merlin snapped the spell book shut. “None that he would notice. I’m sorry if I’ve messed up your plan.”

“You haven’t. You stood up to him. And on the subject of magic. He’ll probably be obsessed with you now, if he isn’t already.” Morgana looked rather contemplative as she peered down at Merlin.

“I really don’t want to see him again.”

“I understand, but you’ll have to tomorrow. We’ve another event. One with magic.”

“Fine.” Merlin opened his book again.

Morgana stared at him for another with her arms crossed, but when he didn’t look up from the book of spells, he heard her take her leave.

\- - - -

Arthur had decided that the worst part about the druids—other than them being magical and their presence sabotaging his romantic relationships—was that they didn’t seem to approve of drink. On the one night where Arthur could have really used to get downright good and pissed, he had to be in the middle of an ale-free forest.

At least on this complaint, Gwaine was a sympathetic ear. 

On Arthur’s other major complaint, the topic of Merlin, Gwaine was far less sympathetic.

“What did you expect? He’s spent the last couple of years with the unwashed, flower-petting pacifists with sparkly eyes. He’s not going to find the idea of being knocked up in Camelot all that exciting when the daytime entertainment is going to end with human ashes.”

“It’s my father’s law. And he’s my mate. Did you not see where this is a rock and hard place?”

Gwaine snorted, before repeating “hard place” and chuckling.

Arthur reminded himself that decking Gwaine in the jaw would amount to un-aristocratic behavior. Taking a breath, Arthur said, “I don’t dislike the druids. I think they do good work here, protecting the omegas and tending the forest, but at the same time, nor do I trust men who hide their swords, and many sorcerers have hidden weapons far more dangerous than swords.”

Gwaine rolled his eyes. “Better to be like me and distrust everyone. This talk isn’t going to get your boyfriend back.”

“But I want him back.” The idea of not having Merlin physically hurt. It made Arthur’s whole body feel like a rusting pole of iron.

“Then woo him.” Gwaine stood.

“Where are you going?” Arthur demanded.

“To talk a pretty druid girl into transforming my water into wine.”

That got Arthur’s attention. “They can do that?” 

Gwaine’s brow creased into skeptical lines. “No clue. Actually, that _sarcasm_ was an indicator that I’m going to go make water. So bugger off.”

“Oh.”

\- - - -

Merlin decided he wanted to find Gwen. Unlike Morgana, she wasn’t quite so crazy on the topic of the Pendragons. Also, he wanted to chat her up about Lancelot. She wasn’t anywhere to be found among the omega tents, so he used a bit of magic to track her to one of the meadows. 

And almost stepped on her—and Lancelot.

“Oh—I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered.

Gwen and Lancelot were sitting close, very close, but actually, it seemed like they were holding and hands and smiling at each other.

“Oh, have a seat, Merlin,” Lancelot said, gesturing to the grass across from him and Gwen.

Any other alpha would have thrown a fit at having his romantic interlude interrupted, but no, not Lancelot. Both he and Gwen were smiling wonderfully at Merlin, as if it was perfectly natural for him to be interrupting their meadow tryst.

“You’re upset,” Gwen said, examining his face. “It’s about Arthur, isn’t it?”

Merlin nodded, and then well, it was like sitting across from two angels, because it all just started pouring out from Merlin: how Arthur was his mate, how they couldn’t be together, how it was mean _mean mean mean_ to roast innocent people, how Arthur was a prat, how Merlin kind of liked that but wished he didn't...

At some point, Gwen stopped him. Picking up Merlin’s hand, she said, “But Merlin, don’t you see? This is surely why you are his mate. In time you shall bring out the best in Arthur. It may not be easy at first, but as the years pass, you shall grow together.

Merlin couldn’t help his bitter laugh. “Not if I’m dead.”

“Dead?” Lancelot drew back, alarmed.

“You think Arthur would harm you?” Gwen was shaking her head.

“Not Arthur, necessarily, but Uther.”

“Uther would never hurt Arthur’s mate. Family is very important to him. Never,” Gwen insisted.

Merlin wished she were right. But no. He held open his palm. “Even if Arthur’s mate could do this?” And not bothering to close his eyes, he grabbed the energy from the air, collecting it into a small, violet-coloured ball in his palm.

Both Lancelot and Gwen stared at the sight, open-mouthed.

“Well shit,” Gwen said, before her hand flew to her mouth in shock at her own tongue. Of course, it didn’t stop her from looking teary-eyed at Merlin.

Merlin nodded pathetically in reply. “There really is no hope.”

“Come here,” Gwen said, and simultaneously both Gwen and Lancelot opened their arms. 

They really were the most adorably sweet people on the earth. For the briefest of instances, Merlin felt loved, if not fully understood.

But alas, such moments were not to last. Because stepping through the trees was Cenred, who threw out a finger toward the light still blazing in Merlin’s palm and declared, “I knew it!”


	7. Chapter 7

If Merlin could have concentrated, he would have stopped time. He would have sent Cenred right back to his fancy castle and legions of knights. And when all was restored to happy order, Merlin would have curled up with Gwen and Lancelot. There would be petting and soothing words and a great deal of denial. But no, Merlin could neither relax nor concentrate. He had to handle _this_.

Thus, instead of letting the glowing ball blink out, he tossed it in the air and sent it zooming right at Cenred, blocking him. 

Three paces into the meadow, Cenred was staring at the ball with a mixture of caution and interest. When he brought his finger up, lowering it close to the ultraviolet perimeter, the air hissed, suddenly effervescent, and Cenred snapped his hand back. “I see. The ball is in your court, Merlin.”

And then the king laughed at his own joke.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “I was enjoying a private chat with my friends. Perhaps we could reschedule?” 

Cenred glanced behind Merlin, sizing up Gwen and Lancelot, before returning his gaze right back to Merlin. “Are you certain your friends wouldn’t enjoy some time alone? We could merely go a few paces over for a chat. Nothing scary.”

Merlin snorted. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Cenred tongue curled under the back of his front teeth. And the man could not have looked more like a predator when he said, “But maybe you scare me. Why else do you think I’m so interested?”

“I thought you liked my eyes.”

“Trust me. I do. I like the whole package, so let me be plain. You’re powerful. I’m powerful. Together, we could be...” Cenred grinned. “It would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

“Fun?” Merlin wanted to keep a straight face, but Cenred’s grin was a bit contagious.

“What do you want from this life, Merlin?”

Merlin raised a brow at him.

“Do you want to be buried in some backwater earl’s holdings? Do you want to be constantly pregnant? Do you want your magical talents to be locked away with cold iron by a husband that fears you?”

“What do you think?” Merlin’s ball of light noticeably brightened with his irritation.

But Cenred was nodding. “Yes, and see with me, you wouldn’t be some precious treasure locked away with the brood in the north tower. You would be my court sorcerer, my right hand.”

“I am sure your own right hand works fine, thanks.”

Cenred laughed, but he was edging closer, and he was able to do so, because Merlin’s defenses were softening. Cenred’s arguments weren’t without some strength. And the king knew it, because in a low, gravelly voice, Cenred said, “You have the loveliest mouth. I’d rather have that, to be honest.”

But not low enough. “There’s a lady here,” Merlin muttered, and Gwen was definitely biting her bottom lip, though more than anything, she looked a bit flush. Huh. 

Lancelot was the one who looked ready to spring and knive Cenred.

Cenred sighed. “I don’t understand why you refuse me. I know you’re attracted to me. I can smell it.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” And really, compared to his reaction to Arthur, Merlin’s reaction to Cenred was miniscule, like coppers to gold bars.

But still, there was no arguing that Merlin was immune, because Cenred was able to side-step Merlin’s ball, almost as if he were dancing, and then with another step, the king was an arm’s length from Merlin. The haloed ball was the only shield between them with the blue glow rippling across Cenred’s black eyes, making him look even more mischievous. “I told you before, but I’ll say it again. I’m offering for you. I want you.”

Merlin couldn’t help his shiver. “I understand.”

“But you haven’t said yes.” Cenred was biting his lip, giving Merlin a shrewd smile.

Merlin shook his head. 

To which Cenred crossed his arms. “I’m not used to being denied.”

“Clearly.”

“I could adjust, though. For you.” Cenred’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Having your gorgeous, lithe body in my bed, just imagine what we could get up to. Between my strength and your magic, it wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” He pressed his hand forward, like it could pass through the glowing ball. But no, the moment his hand drew too close, the hiss came and Cenred flinched. Still, he made no sound. His eyes never left Merlin’s.

Merlin swallowed, throat dry. There was no doubt in his mind, if Arthur wasn’t his mate, he’d probably be destroyed at this point. 

But there was stupid Arthur.

Even if he couldn’t be with stupid Arthur.

Merlin shook his head again.

The change in Cenred’s expression was immediate. “Who is he?” Cenred’s eyes flashed suspiciously over toward Lancelot.

Another typical jealous alpha. “No, it’s not him. Not that it should matter if it was anyone. It’s my choice. And right now I choose no one, okay?”

Cenred didn’t buy it. “Know this, Merlin. I would never harm a hair on your body, but I fight for what I want. And if any other challenges me for your hand... they had best watch their back, because trust me, I will not sit idly by.”

“I’m not a possession.”

“You don’t have to be a possession to be worth fighting for,” Cenred said, and then, while Merlin was glowering at him, Cenred blew him a rather ominous kiss, turned heel, and headed for the trees.

Merlin took a breath, and then he turned back to Gwen and Lancelot.

Lancelot was frowning. “That is a dangerous man. No matter his title or his lands, should you ever need my assistance, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I can handle myself,” Merlin muttered, and so as to demonstrate, he flipped his wrist and the blue orb at last blinked out.

“But you don’t need to do it alone,” Gwen said, quite firmly. And then she held open her arms, while Lancelot patted the grass between them. An invitation.

Sooo nice.

Merlin crowded in and finally got his afternoon snuggles.

Wouldn’t it be ideal if he could just marry these two?

\- - - -

Arthur was morose on the subject of wooing. He’d never had to attract anyone in his entire life. Whenever there had been wooing, he’d been on the receiving end. Also, Merlin was a regular knotted cat’s cradle. For girls, there were flowers, fruits, and perfumes that could be given, but for Merlin... Well, Merlin was definitely a boy, not a girl. Despite the whole omega thingy. Arthur doubted he’d be impressed by a nosegay of violets. 

“Gaius, what should I get for a male omega?” he asked when the physician came into the tent with fresh herbs.

“I assume you mean, Merlin.”

Gaius was like that. Even in the castle. He somehow always knew everything. “Yes.”

“You and he are at odds?”

“He found out who I am and isn’t exactly fond of Father’s past, um, anti-magic raids.” Arthur couldn’t help but lower his voice and glance at the walls of the tent as he spoke.

“Ahhh...”

Arthur waited, but Gaius was giving him an amused grandfatherly look. Not helpful. He prompted, “Well, any advice?”

“You’ve been here a few days. You’ve had opportunity to observe a magic community in action. After observing the druids, do you think they’re dangerous or worthy of execution?”

“No. They’re...” Arthur frowned. “...they’re kind of boring and mumbly and impossible to have a conversation with, but on the whole, I have no quarrel with them. I know Father indiscriminately hates magical users, but I suppose I don’t. Just the really bad ones.”

Gaius’s face was dead straight when he said, “Then show that to Merlin.”

And that gave Arthur his first idea.

\- - - -

Merlin spent the next morning visiting Morgana in her steamy cave. The potion was nearly done, though Morgana refused to leave it’s bubbling side until the final bit of cherry-colored mash was added. (Merlin was pretty sure that bit was the rose hips.) He’d gone to see her because he’d wanted to talk to her about Cenred.

Naturally, Morgana laughed at him. “I don’t see why you’re worried. What can he do? Cast some protections. If he tries anything on you, you can stop his heart while it still beats.”

Merlin swore that Morgana wasn’t this cutthroat when he met her. “But I wouldn’t do that.”

“Merlin, if he threatened someone you cared about, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself. You’re built that way.”

And then she’d asked less than subtly about Arthur.

“Haven’t seen him since the stupid contest. Don’t want to. I think he’s lost interest.”

And that would have all been well and believable except on the way back to the encampment, Merlin and Morgana were ambushed by a hoard of druid children.

As children tended to do, they melted in from the forest, popping out of hedges, sliding down trees, and rolling out from under logs. For a second, Merlin thought this might be the doing of Mordred, the little sorcerer who Merlin thought was a little creeper (but Morgana absolutely adored) because he was always trying to get “Emrys” to give him “natural magic” lessons. Whatever he meant by that.

Regardless, there was Mordred and Ishy and Elsie and Ashrael and the rest of the impish lot, standing in a line singing a bloody _fertility song_ at Merlin.

It was a blessing that the song was in the Old Tongue, so that even if the children knew some the words, they weren’t familiar enough to get the more _choice_ symbolic phrases, like “our intertwined stamens shall flood the petal pods with sticky pollen” or “upon the break in the beaver dam, the river leaps forth, end joining beginning, and even the smallest tributaries shall be choked with readiness.” With their sweet, high voices, the song was somehow even more perverted.

By the end of the fiasco, Merlin was crimson, and Morgana was shaking with the effort of containing her laughter. Still, they applauded politely.

Mordred came forward. “With compliments, to Emrys from Arthur of Dorstag.” And then the little tripe-worm smiled, and somehow Merlin thought Mordred understood far more of the song than any nine year old should.

Morgana’s amused smile changed to pure swagger. “Arthur?”

But Merlin cut her off. “How did he convince you to do this?”

All of the children had different reasons. Elsie flashed Merlin a shining silver piece. Ashrael had an apple. Ishy has a hand mirror. And the rest had food or other trinkets. All of the children looked delighted by the exchange. Even Mordred.

Which was odd. Mordred wasn’t the type to be impressed by trinkets or food. The kid was obsessed with magic and magic alone. 

“And what did he give you?” Merlin asked Mordred.

“He let me pick the song.” 

Morgana started laughing. Merlin scowled. 

\- - - -

Naturally, the children weren’t content with one song. They pursued Merlin, following him through the forest. It was only when he threw up a wall of magic (and got many _boos_ ) that he was allowed alone. 

Or at least he was until Gaius showed up.

“You found me.” Merlin was under a magical camouflage again. Only someone using magic could have seen through it. 

“Yes, a bit of a wild goose chase. I’ve been searching for you all day. At one point an small band of children threatened me should I interrupt their performance.

Merlin didn’t really want to talk to anyone, but Gaius was nice enough, and then there was the fact that he knew Hunith. And Arthur. “You know that Arthur sent the children.”

“Yes, he’s intent upon retaining your good opinion. Besides the song, I believe a collection of toothsome forest nuts has only recently been delivered to your tent.”

Merlin buried his face in his hands.

“He’s not so bad, you know. I have known him since he was a boy, and though... a bit conceited as royals can be, his heart is not a bad one.” Gaius seated himself on the grassy slope.

“Good or bad heart, does it matter when my going to Camelot ends with ashes?”

“It doesn’t have to end that way.” 

Which was a nice sentiment but not a solution. Merlin had no time for that. He stopped toying with the blade of grass in his hands, and turned to Gaius. “You have magic.” It wasn’t a question. No matter that Morgana had dismissed Gaius as a court physician, there was no way Gaius could have found him without some talent.

“Not like you.” Gaius shook his head. “Mine isn’t even as strong as Morgana’s. It aids me with herbal applications from time to time and the occasional potion, but that’s the extent of it.”

“Yet Uther permits you to stay in Camelot.”

“On the contingency that I conduct no sorcery.”

“But Uther _knows_ you once used magic.”

Gaius nodded. 

“Uther doesn’t know about Morgana, does he?”

“No.”

“Would he kill her?”

“Of course not. She’s—she’s like a daughter to him.”

“Morgana thinks he would. She hates him for it.”

Gaius nodded. “She hates him because she loves him. But then Morgana has never asked Uther to still love her despite her magic.”

Merlin couldn’t help the darkness in his tone. “She shouldn’t have to.”

“On that point, we both agree.”

Another thought occurred to Merlin. “You said you were familiar with potions.”

“Yes, why?”

“You know the Old Tongue.”

“A fair amount.”

Merlin hesitated, considering, but then he thought, what do I have to lose? “Do you know these runes?” And pressing his finger into the soft dirt, Merlin drew the runes that Morgana had translated as _cor fons_.

Gaius studied the rune thoughtfully. “This one means soul or heart, depending on the translation, and the second, well, I’m not sure. It’s similar to others I’ve seen except that this symbol is a bird...”

“A phoenix, maybe?”

“Except that a phoenix is normally this rune...” Gaius drew a slightly different shape in the air, frowning. “And be glad it’s not the pure phoenix rune. Nasty creatures. Worse than dragons, phoenixes.” Gaius shuddered.

“Are you going to tell me your story about phoenixes?” Merlin asked, smiling.

“Are you going to tell me what potion this is for?”

Merlin scowled, but Gaius only nodded, like he expected this.

“Nevertheless, Merlin, maybe you can pay me a small kindness. I was hoping that, were you planning on attending the ball, if you might consent to a dance with Arthur? I know it’s uncomfortable for you, but if I can go back and tell Arthur you’ve accepted a dance, then I believe both Gwaine and myself with sleep better for his lack of pacing.”

If only the man hadn’t asked with such genuine manners...

And it was the last event of this whole mating charade.

Not to mention he missed Arthur...

The song had been horrible—but Merlin was looking forward to the nuts.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” he muttered.

He regretted the words the second he spoke them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: We're in massive cliff hanger territory through these next few chapters. I always tell people this, but they never believe me. And then they get mad. LOL. Regardless, my apologies for the wait. This week ATE me. I had planned on having this story /finished/ by this weekend, and no, no, no, everything had to go wrong. Anyway, we're back to full speed ahead. :)

Because Merlin hated himself, he let Morgana drag him out to the woods smack on time for the witching hour. In the steamy interior of the cave, all was ready: the color of the cauldron had changed from a creamy pink to a sharp crimson. And after they levitated the pot out of the cave and into the meadow, the moon shone down, reflecting rose-gold in the bubbling pot.

“Now I’ll cast the spell,” Morgana whispered, and Merlin couldn’t help but shiver as she stood over the cauldron and her eyes shimmered the same color as the blood moon at her fingertips.

Her chanting was soft yet steady enough for Merlin to catch most of the ancient words: _love and truth and fire start—bind the bearer to his heart. Let naught but truth stop his pain—and when courage fails, aid him to his end._

It was terrifying, and yet—utterly gorgeous. Morgana kept repeating the chant over and over again until the steam from the pot grew thick in the forest glade. And Merlin couldn’t tell the difference from potion’s mist and the sparking magic that clouded the air. It looked beautiful, swirling in diaphanous gusts across his cheeks. And the smell was honey and cream and heaven. It made Merlin want to lick the air.

Which was dangerous. For, as the vapor filled his lungs, Merlin’s head swam, and he had to plant his feet on either side so that he didn’t stumble. Morgana herself was swaying back and forth, and Merlin realized at some point that the potion wasn’t just drawing magic from her, but from Merlin, the surrounding forest and yes, even the moonlight above.

 _What is this potion?_ he wondered, but then his thoughts faded. His eyes sunk like stones, and he was only half aware of laying his cheek on a smooth stone and smiling. 

His dreams were pleasant.

\- - - -

When he awoke, Morgana was groaning and prodding him. 

“We’re late.” She kept repeating. “Laaaate. Late!”

The sun was at its apex overhead. It was already noon.

Merlin nodded and stood, but even still, he wasn’t prepared for Morgana to press cool glass into his hand. It was a vial, and in it was the red potion. When Merlin held it up to the sun, it seemed to shine more silver than gold. Odd.

“Morgana—” He swallowed. “I don’t think I can—”

“Just hold it,” she insisted, like she’d already heard his argument and knew how she was going to answer it. “I know I can’t force you. But just think about what it would mean. Please.” 

But she didn’t know _everything_. He needed to tell her. It had gone too far. “Morgana—”

But she cut him off. “Don’t say another word. Please, don’t. I had another vision. You know about my earlier one, in which I saw that I had to make this potion. Well, in this second one, I saw you and me, we’re older but we’re smiling at each other. But that’s not all.”

Merlin nodded for her to continue.

“In my vision, we’re in _Camelot_. On the eastern parapet. The sky is blue and I think I’m with child.”

Merlin swallowed. “Morgana, your visions don’t tell you everything. Interpretations can only go so far.”

“Just keep it in your pocket, Merlin. Please.” 

Merlin wasn’t sure why he did as she said. Maybe, it was because her visions were always true, even if never for the exact reasons that she guessed. Maybe, it was because of the mad beauty of the wild magic that he had witnessed last night beneath the full moon. Or maybe it was because more than anything, Merlin hated letting others down.

Either way, Merlin pocketed the potion.

\- - - -

Arthur was trying to keep himself under wraps. It was a thing easier said than done, because Gaius— _brilliant Gaius_ —had told him that Merlin had received his gifts and had finally— _for heaven’s sake_ —acquiesced to a dance.

Arthur could work with that. After all, he was a wonderful dancer. Dancing with a sword and dancing with a partner both involved excellent footwork, and if there was one skill Arthur had mastered, it was fleet feet.

Still, a little practice wouldn’t hurt, which was how he ended up dripping sweat an hour later. 

Arthur knew he’d brought Gwaine along for a good reason. No matter that Gwaine spent most of his free time in the taverns, the knight was pure muscle and tactic when he danced the melee with Arthur.

“So,” Arthur said, as he dodged beneath a tree branch, “found a fair omega to take home?”

“I have found—” Gwaine dodged Arthur’s counterstrike “—a whole lot of privileged—” He struck back. “—snotty, little damsels who smell nice. That’s—” He leapt back. “—what I have found.”

“Merlin’s not like that.” Arthur blocked with his shield.

“No, Merlin isn’t. Nor is Gwen. Nor even is Morgana.”

Oh, Morgana. Arthur snorted. “Wrong there. Morgana is a total snot.”

Gwaine cracked an elbow into Arthur’s shoulder. “She’s strong minded and intelligent, and more importantly, she does not judge people based on their size of their landholdings.”

“Just because she’s awful to _me_ —”

But Gwaine managed to thwack his sword right on the top of Arthur’s helmet. Despite the ringing in his ears, Arthur took advantage of the opening and kicked Gwaine square in the chest.

In the end, they both stumbled back, before simultaneously falling on their arses.

What Arthur didn’t expect was the polite clapping. He turned to see that a small crowd had formed among the tree line, and chief among the watchers was King Stupid face. And somehow, this morning, Cenred looked extra stupid, with his four inches on Arthur, his barbaric long braids, and the two swords that made an x across his back.

Really, really stupid. And unfortunately—Arthur could admit it—not ugly.

Arthur turned back toward Gwaine, ready to start up again, but _noooo_ —it couldn’t just happen that way, because Cenred had to march over, like he owned the place, and say “May I cut in?” while smiling like this was the ball already and not a bleeding afternoon practice melee.

Across the glade, Gwaine was giving Arthur a warning look, one that said this was a really bad idea.

But still, it wasn’t like Arthur could say, “no.” Cowardice was not an option. He’d just have to play this nice and smart.

Also, Gwaine needed to stop looking at him like he was about to jump into a cauldron of bubbling oil. Arthur shot him a daggered look before turning toward Cenred. “We were just practicing, but I’d be honored,” he said with a (very small) bow.

(Because Arthur was raised with excellent manners.)

Cenred reached back over his shoulders and drew his twin short swords at the same time. Yeah, it looked badass, but Arthur thought it was a terrible overplay. Better to switch hands when your opponent least expected it. (His right-to-left switch had saved him on any number of occasions.) Still, Arthur didn’t have much to worry about, the druids had enchanted all of their blades had been sealed with magic. They could not draw blood.

Cenred gave Arthur the fakest smile ever. “You’ve a talent with a sword. I couldn’t help but wish to test my skill against you.”

“Thank you.” Arthur lightly swung out his blade. 

Cenred met his strike and countered. And then they were moving, going back and forth in a constant swirl of motion.

“It’s strange,” Cenred said when they had stepped to the far side of the glade, away from their onlookers, “I would have thought that a knight of your caliber would have made a name for himself, especially in Olaf’s kingdom. His knights are not known for their skill, rather for excesses.”

“You insult me, Sir.” Arthur managed a light blow on Cenred’s side. “But I suppose I’ve not promoted my knightly qualities. I consider myself more of a... scholarly type.”

Cenred got him hard on the arm. “You didn’t say you were funny.”

“Funny.” Arthur parried, and then dove in for a side attack. He only just missed.

“All of these jokes.”

Arthur didn’t answer, merely swung again. Cenred was being quite cautious with his steps.

“You are not from Dorstag. You are not from Olaf’s kingdom. I know where you’re from.”

“Not your kingdom.”

Cenred scoffed. “No, I’ve been asking around. And now I know exactly where you’re from and who you are, Arthur Pendragon.” And then Cenred came at him.

Arthur’s instincts served him well. The fight had sent him backward in the glade, yet despite the ferocity of Cenred’s charge, it was easy enough for Arthur to round the fight, so that Cenred was the one who had to back up, and then the man didn’t see the stone behind his foot, so that when Arthur attacked just _so_ —he stumbled and fell.

Arthur’s flat blade was angled above Cenred’s chest.

“I’m not the loser here,” Cenred said, though he was breathing heavily.

Arthur couldn’t help his anger. “Ah, yes, besides being awfully sore, you’re a liar as well.”

“Because Pendragon, I didn’t come here to fight you. I came to give you a warning.”

“Warn away.” Arthur waved his sword above Cenred’s neck.

Cenred pushed the sword away, standing and brushing the dirt off himself. “I know you’ve been bothering Merlin. Do so no more. He’ll never go to Camelot. And in the end you wouldn’t want him to.”

“Don’t talk to me about Merlin.” Arthur gripped the sword in his hand, and for the moment, he truly wished it wasn’t enchanted.

“If you don’t leave him be, then know this: tonight at the ball, I will tell everyone who and what you are. I will tell them that a murderous Pendragon has been playing a false guest, and you shall never set foot in the ball again, for your face shall be known to all.”

“Why not tell them now?”

Cenred grinned, even as he sheathed both of his swords over his back. “I know how to play my cards.”

And then the royal bastard strutted away.

\- - - -

Merlin held both Morgana and Gwen’s hands as they walked into the grotto. Dusk was already upon them. 

The early afternoon had been spent bathing in springs scented with herbs and warmed by magic. Some of the druid women had set in on braiding Gwen and Morgana’s hair, using thorny vines to bind up their long locks. Merlin was glad to have escaped all of that, but there was no getting out of whatever this little ceremony was. Up ahead, through a break in the rocks, he could make out a faint white shimmering. When he concentrated, he could feel the magic.

The druids were—

_Ew. Flowers._

Sure enough as soon as it was their turn, some of the elders began chanting. Before their eyes, a fresh batch of white lilies bloomed out of the crags and a soft breeze bespooled the petals, twisting them upwards and then around the curve of the rock wall so that they came directly at Merlin, Gwen, and Morgana. 

The petals didn’t just cling to their white garments—a few mixed with leaves to frame their eyes, and when Merlin’s hands felt at his face, he realized he was wearing a mask. So too were Morgana and Gwen. Gwen’s was arranged in a feathered, ivory pattern, while for Morgana darker petals fit like leather over her high cheekbones.

Merlin’s own “garment,” however, had left his arms and chest bare in parts, which seemed rude. And worse yet, when he looked up, both Gwen and Morgana were holding back grins and looking at him. They weren’t noticing each other’s outfits at all. Just Merlin’s.

“I look like a fairy, don’t I?” Merlin complained.

“No,” Gwen said immediately, while Morgana paused and corrected, “Fey, no. Human sacrifice, yes.”

Merlin shoved at her, but she only laughed as the druids urged them forward. 

They continued on the forest path, following the ever brightening lanterns as the day’s shadows stretched into night.

Still, Merlin shivered, as he remembered Morgana’s words. _Human sacrifice._

More than ever, he hoped her words weren’t prophetic.

\- - - -

To Arthur’s credit, he was not the one who had an altercation with the druids.

Nope, it was Gwaine who had a royal tantrum upon stepping out of the bushes.

The poor druid managing their group of alphas really never had a shot.

“I have a pinecone pushing up my arse, and I don’t care if you have to hocus pocus it away or if you use iron clamps. I want it _out_.”

Arthur himself had a blade of grass in an itchy place, but he was still rather certain he’d gotten the better deal. Whatever the druids’ spell had been, Arthur now had a shirt of woven grass with dark hawthorn twigs and leaves covering both his shoulders and then the bottom half of his dark robe. Gwaine on the other hand had a great deal of straw-like grass, with small elderberries spritzed around his collar, and lastly, as he said, pinecones.

The druid who’d pointed them toward the magical bushes had told them that their clothing would suit their personalities.

Arthur thought the spell had figured Gwaine out just fine.

Five minutes later, though, Gwaine was conifer-free and they were stepping into the ballroom, except that it wasn’t a ballroom in the traditional sense. They were in an ancient part of the forest, where the floor was smooth moss and no undergrowth marred the spaces between the trees. When one looked past the branches lantern glow overhead, there was nothing but black sky and moonshine. Still, the lanterns seemed to be hanging from every sturdy branch, and while it wasn’t as bright as daytime, Arthur thought the lights shone brighter than normal. Magic, definitely.

When he looked out, the ball at first seemed to be a sea of green. Alphas in various verdant shades were everywhere, but then here and there among them, there were the brilliant omegas, looking for all the world like ivory roses crowning the plain shrubs beneath them.

Arthur wasted no time. He immediately set out in search of the brightest rose. 

\- - - - 

Like he had countless times over the past four days, Merlin slipped away from Morgana and Gwen and hid himself from the room. It was a strong spell. Cenred has stopped not five feet from Merlin and looked right through him. Regardless, though, Merlin had made a promise, so he had to hunt down Arthur.

It took no time. Merlin didn’t even have to use magic. He was skirting the eastern border of the forest when a gust swept through the trees, causing the lanterns to sway, and Merlin caught that _scent_.

It was a pathetic sign of how much Arthur affected his magic, because Merlin was just about to turn around when arms closed in around his waist, and then the smell was hot in his sinuses and Arthur’s lips were already brushing against the back of his ear.

“I was looking everywhere for you. No one had seen you,” Arthur whispered.

Arthur’s voice sounded so very good. And his smell... 

_Focus_ , Merlin. _Focus._ Merlin pulled back, so he could turn around and face Arthur. “I’m wearing a mask, and I was hiding from certain people.”

Arthur’s face darkened, but he didn’t accost Merlin for the details. He simply nodded and said, “But not from me.”

“No.” Though, if he was smart, he would have stayed hiding, because looking at Arthur across a mountain range was a bad idea, let alone being this close to him. The leaves that coated his body reflected the surrounding candle flames like a hundred tiny mirrors. It made him look so bloody golden.

“Are you still mad at me?” Arthur asked, and he was looking at Merlin like he knew bloody fine and well that Merlin wasn’t mad at him.

“Not mad, no.”

“You got the song—and the nuts? Those were really good nuts, were they not? The kids helped me pick and shell them.”

As if Merlin needed the image of Arthur surrounded by a boatload of giggling druid children to tease his biology. “They were nice. But Arthur—and I mean this—I can’t go back to Camelot with you. It wouldn’t work.”

Arthur opened his mouth, like he wanted to argue, but then closed it. And somehow that was worse, because Arthur not saying anything was just far too controlled and un-prat-like and most of all, un-Arthur-like. Thus, it was positively gutting when Arthur only looked him in the eyes, pulled on his hand, and whispered, “You promised me a dance.”

Indeed, being a gullible idiot, Merlin had promised. So when Arthur smiled in a broken way and lead him out amid the other dancers, Merlin let him. And when he pulled Merlin close—tight, even—Merlin reveled in the press of their bodies. 

Around them, harps mixed with flutes and reeds in endless sort of melody. It wasn’t a simple song but rather an old spell, the soft kind that would urge the omegas in the right direction, toward honesty and relaxation and something a little darker too: the wild of magic of Beltane.

The whimsical threads of power were there but subtle, tickling at the back of Merlin’s consciousness and urging him to forget his woes, forget his cares, to simply move with mindless glee. 

And how easy it was. Because Arthur smelled delicious, and with his cheek against Merlin’s with its scratch of stubble—it felt glorious. 

He was pretty sure Arthur was feeling it too, because, well, _his hands_. They kept moving, not grabbing at Merlin but simply drawing long, firm strokes down Merlin’s back. Not soft enough to be soothing. But neither were they hard enough to be a massage. And somehow that made it all the more erotic. 

Merlin was hard, and then Arthur shifted, and heavens, then they were together, and the next thing Merlin knew, they were up against a tree, and they were kissing. The music around them was faster, wilder, and yet Arthur still seemed painfully in control. When Arthur pulled back, Merlin chased his lips, wanting more. But Arthur was steady and intense, staring into Merlin’s eyes, asking questions that he wasn’t ready to answer.

“This is unwise,” Merlin muttered.

And Arthur froze, but not because of what they were doing. It was because they had collected an audience. There were far more alphas than omegas, and more than a few eyes were on them. Looking from side to side, Arthur’s hands left Merlin’s face to cage protectively around him. “Let’s go somewhere less public.” 

And because Merlin didn’t want to lose either Arthur’s body heat or for Arthur to attack anyone, he led the way. 

Away from the ball, their eyes were unadjusted to the darkness, and Merlin had to step carefully. Still, he knew where he was going. He took Arthur to the place down by the creek, where the yew trees thickened over a drop in the rocks. Merlin held up a branch, urging Arthur through, and then he followed. Before letting go of the branch, though, he cast a veil to hide them. 

On the other side of the branches, the moon shone down clear through the trees, and with the creek reflecting it, Arthur’s face—and his worried expression—were easy to see.

Merlin was about to speak, when Arthur snatched up his hands and looked into his eyes. “Cenred threatened me today. He said if we were together, then he would expose me. Is that why you won’t go back with me? Did he threaten you, too?”

“No,” Merlin said, but he couldn’t even properly scoff, because Arthur looked too upset.

“He thinks he has a chance with you.”

Merlin furiously shook his head. “He doesn’t.”

“Good, because I—I don’t know what I would do.”

“Arthur, I would never—with anyone else.”

“Then why won't you go with me. Being away from you feels _wrong_.”

“I know.”

“So, please.”

“Arthur…”

“Come with me. Say yes. A simple yes. I need you.”

When Merlin paused, bracing himself to say another “no,” it was like Arthur knew and still refused it, because he grabbed Merlin, pulled on the back of his neck, so that he had Merlin’s mouth again. And then not just his mouth, Arthur pushed down on his shoulders so that Merlin half-fell back onto his arse, but then Arthur was over him, smelling like leaves and forest and sex. Yes, _Lord_ , Merlin was both hard and wet, and the smell of lavender and orchids was floral in the air.

Arthur’s hands were shaking as they searched, trying to scratch an opening in the mess of flowers and leaves and fabric coating Merlin, but he couldn't get beneath. It was like the forest collage moved to cover Merlin. But then Arthur’s hands seized on something and he pulled—except it wasn’t a hem or a gap in his robe.

It was the bloody vial. And Arthur was frowning at it.

“Oh, give me that.” Merlin reached for the vial.

“What is it? It’s pink.” Arthur was holding up the potion to the moon.

“Something Morgana gave me,” Merlin said, and when Arthur still hadn’t handed it over, Merlin swiped it right from his grip.

“What does it do?” 

“Nothing that isn’t doing already, and besides, do you really want to talk about my potion right now?”

Arthur frowned at the potion in Merlin’s hand, but then he looked Merlin in the eyes again. “I want you. I want my mate.”

“Please don’t make me say it again. I can’t go back to Camelot with you.”

Arthur paused and straightened, and it was like his whole face lit up. “But you’re not saying no to me—just my country?”

“Since you’re the prince of your country, I don’t really see the—”

“I’ll give it up. We don’t have to go back if you don’t want to. We’ll go somewhere else.”

Well, fuck. “Arthur, I’m not—”

“Yes. We’ll build a cabin, and I can chop wood, and you can do—I don’t care—gather herbs or something, and then we’ll have sex, Merlin. Every day, all the time, until you’re full with my child, and then maybe the next one, and maybe someday I’ll change your mind, and we’ll go home to Camelot, but if not, that’s okay, because we'll have each—”

“—Arthur, no—” But it was so, so wrong, because Arthur without Camelot was wrong. The words felt wrong down to Merlin’s very soul. His magic didn’t like the words. But then, another part of him, the mate, did like the words. Because he could have Arthur and his magic, and Uther could go stuff it, and yes, sex, sex, and more sex and Arthur and—

Arthur was still talking. “Gwaine can stick around and help me get the frame up, and sure Father will protest, but Merlin—I have to—I can’t lose you—” 

And one moment Arthur was all big plans and smiles and suddenly he was this: a man gripping Merlin’s arms so hard that it hurt—a man with a tear sliding down his cheek.

No. No tears. Oh fuck.

Merlin was panicking even though he had no reason too, but Arthur was still holding him, still gripping him, still with silver glistening lines on his gorgeous cheekbones, and still demanding that Merlin accept him.

It was only when Merlin’s felt his own tears begin to drip from his chin that he knew what he had to do.

Because he couldn’t lie to Arthur anymore. Arthur needed to know why he couldn’t go to Camelot. Nor could he leave Arthur. He was Merlin’s prat. No one else’s. Yet nor could he bear for Arthur to lose his birthright. Alas, here was their Gordian knot. 

Merlin laughed, an ugly, snotty sound.

There was no other way. If he wanted Arthur, he would have to love him mindlessly. Without reason. Without even all of himself. This was why Merlin let his eyes flash gold in full sight of Arthur.

Arthur was hauled five feet back, his face white with shock. But before Merlin could suffer for it, before he could feel the blow of Arthur’s imminent rejection, he picked up the vial. His tears were even more constant now, and they dribbled easily into the uncorked liquid.

The potion boiled red.

Thus, with eyes locked on the moon, Merlin tipped the glass and drank it down to the last crimson drop.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliff hanger... although I personally think this one isn't as bad. Also, thank yous to [Questing Quiche](http://archiveofourown.org/users/QuestingQuiche/pseuds/QuestingQuiche) who entertains me across all fandoms, and who also helped fix up the NC-17 in this chapter. <3.

The potion stung in Merlin’s throat. The fumes invaded his sinuses and made the tears from his eyes fall even faster. And yet, as he saw the tongues of magic settle over him, it was not the hungry consummation of his mind and heart that he had anticipated. To the contrary, the magic settled in his belly before zinging out through his veins, and the way it shot through his body, well, it was like the magic was _examining_ him. Like it was curious.

For a second, Merlin felt insane relief, but in the next, he realized how terribly wrong he was.

Because though he had his mind, the spell seized hold of his magic.

Merlin instinctively tried to seize it back.

But no, it was like the moon overhead was bloody chuckling at him with its red-stained smile.

And then the magic came—going right for his— _well, oh shit_. Merlin’s abdomen seized, his head swam, and he was vaguely aware of voicing his protests: “No, no, not now. Not now.”

From the other side of the clearing, the wind picked up, and Merlin’s mind was overwhelmed—not by the magic anymore, though he could still feel its presence in the background—no, by gorgeous, honey-smelling, hard-bodied Arthur, toward whom Merlin stumbled.

The potion had made its first play: Merlin was in heat.

\- - - -

Upon being magically chucked through the trees, Arthur’s first thought had been: _Merlin’s eyes look gorgeous like that._

His second thought had been: _Oh, shit. Bugger. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. And WELL, THAT EXPLAINS THINGS._

But to his own surprise, Arthur hadn’t really panicked—at least—not about the whole Merlin being a sorcerer thing. That bit made innate sense. What had truly upset Arthur was to watch Merlin tip an unnaturally pink potion into his mouth like he was sacrificing himself to the evil moon goddess.

And oh, yes, then the next disaster, wherein Merlin turned into a _neon bleeding blue_ thundercloud, crackling and smoking, and Arthur couldn’t do anything to help him because some invisible wall was blocking him.

That hadn’t stopped Arthur from trying though, and he was still pushing against the unseen barrier when the crackling magic blinked out, so that Merlin slumped onto his knees and Arthur plummeted forward in the dirt.

Arthur was still trying to stand when the potion’s magic decided it was his turn. The stuff was smoke-like, so that when he tried to bat it back, his hand passed right through it. And then it was all over him, coalescing over his face and mouth, chasing him, until he couldn’t hold his breath anymore. On his inhale, it slid in—then right out—and it was shaped like a hook of all things. The smoke curled like it was yanking something out of Arthur.

He took a confused breath, and that’s when his brain went haywire.

Because his sense of smell was back.

The druid’s protections were gone.

And across the glade, aglow with golden eyes and moon-lit skin, was his mate.

Arthur charged.

\- - - -

The last time Merlin had been in heat, it had been uncomfortable, sweaty and tedious, like slogging through a swamp. When he’d slept, he’d dreamed of vines covering him, some slithering snake-like across his neck and shoulders while others had touched more tentatively, slipping into his deep spots like they had a dark purpose. Of course, in his last heat, the druids had been a constant presence, guiding his mind their chanting.

But now, there was none of that. The forest was silent except for his own harsh breaths. Instead of heat, Merlin felt cold and painfully empty. When he swallowed, his stomach clenched. He was fucking ravenous.

Except that what he wanted was right here—Merlin’s eyes focused just in time for Arthur to slam into him.

It was fortunate that the ground was moss-covered, yet even with the natural carpet, the impact hurt. The back of Merlin’s head was throbbing as Arthur’s full weight came down and his frantic fingers grabbed at Merlin.

Arthur might have made a rueful half-sound, a joke of an apology, but then it didn’t matter. Merlin’s concussion was an afterthought because his mate sank his teeth into Merlin’s neck.

It should have hurt. Merlin was being bloody savaged, but no, the flows in his brains were all haywire so that instead of fear, the pain was drowning him in joy.

Instead of pushing Arthur away, Merlin spread his knees and arched his neck, giving Arthur more. Wanting Arthur to take more.

And he did. Arthur pushed upright, looming up over Merlin with the night stars as a crown, and then he went for Merlin’s coverings. His hand seized on the ruffle of petals lining Merlin’s neck—and he ripped. This time the mix of flora and fabric gave so that white threads clouded the air, some catching in Arthur’s hair while other fluttered like moths across the moon overhead.

It was lovely, beautiful, sweet-scented and utterly wild, but Arthur was _still_ ripping like Merlin was a bottomless bouquet and well, it occurred to Merlin that he was not without his own abilities. He reached for his magic, and to his surprise, it was not only there, but eager.

Merlin snapped his fingers. The leaves and flowers scattered so that only Arthur’s breeches and Merlin’s ragged robe remained.

“Useful,” Arthur said, before plucking at his drawstring so that the bulge inside was released.

Merlin reached for Arthur’s cock at the same time that Arthur grabbed his arse and flipped him over. As Merlin had really, really wanted to touch him, he tried to reach back around, but then Arthur’s hands were under the fabric of his robe. His palms were hot. When he grabbed Merlin, spreading him, Merlin even shifted to help, to make it easier, because fuck—this was it. He could feel the tickle of moisture between his legs, and his whole body was hungry, and then, yes, Arthur’s finger slid forward. He was just about to push in when—Arthur’s hand was gone.

Arthur was yelping. Swearing. A lot of fucks.

And oh, right, Merlin turned around to see Arthur with his index finger sucked into his mouth like he was trying to cool a burn. A certain druid protection was still in place.

“I can’t—we can’t—oh God—let me die now.” Arthur was naked and red-faced and still holding his unhappy looking finger aloft.

“It’s okay,” Merlin assured, crawling over to him.

Arthur jerked upright. “It. Is. Not. Okay.”

Merlin shook his head and grabbed a handful of Arthur. “It’s just a spell.”

“But the druids cast it. It’s strong magic. It won’t let us…” But Arthur trailed off, his mouth gaping open, and his eyes were lidded as Merlin slid his hand up and down. 

“Like you know anything about magic.” He liked how Arthur especially twitched when Merlin’s pinkie trailed a circle over his knot.

When he looked up, Arthur was looking at him with an open mouth, as if he was slightly in awe. “Your eyes aren’t blue anymore. They’re pure gold,” Arthur murmured.

“I’m going to fix this,” Merlin said, and he closed his eyes and focused on unraveling the magic.

Except that it didn’t work. The spell wouldn’t give.

Merlin closed his eyes, squared his shoulders, and gritted his teeth as he gave another heaving push with his mind. But _no_. Zilch. 

It was not fair. He had gorgeous Arthur with his lines of muscle and eagerness, and this gaping fissure in his center that was so close to being filled—EXCEPT FOR THIS STUBBORN SPELL. “It’s not working,” Merlin groaned out. “I don’t understand. It’s not a difficult spell to undo, but—” 

That was when Merlin felt the other spell in the equation. The pink mist from the potion was back, hooping around them, and by the way the hoops curled like smiles, it _wanted_ something.

“Merlin,” Arthur spat, sounding so tense that Merlin was surprised he hadn’t split in two, “I’m not seeing a lot of all powerful fire and brimstone.”

Recognizing the new pattern in the druid spell, Merlin swallowed. “I think it wants a binding.”

Arthur groaned at Merlin. “We’re _mates_.” And then he looked up at the swirling pink mists and half-yelled, “How do you not get that? What could be more binding? Do we need to curl up in some bloody rope?”

The mist, dare Merlin say, seemed to creepily chuckle, before separating into two separate hoops, which hung suspended in the air for one moment before joining ends, like a twisted circle, so that the flow of magic continued in an eternal circuit. It was a rune that Merlin recognized.

“No, um.” Merlin shook his head. “I think it wants oaths, like, you know... marriage.”

“Oh,” Arthur breathed, and he sat forward, back ramrod straight, and unfazed by the metaphysical judge. “We can do that, except that we’re missing a man of religion.”

“I’d bet it’d prefer the Old Religion, or at least,” Merlin frowned as the thickening mist jumped at his words, “some sort of magical binding.”

“Magical...?” Arthur trailed off, but he didn’t pull back when Merlin slid their hands together.

At their touch, Merlin felt a pull on his magic, and then the golden strands leaped, as if from his eyes, forming golden shapes in the air. It was a perfect mimic of the translation spell that Merlin had used to help Morgana days before. When all the words were in the air, Merlin swallowed, and began reading them aloud:

_Donec mors nos ex parte, nulla nos amatores. Nostri animae esse unum. Ab alpha ad omega, circuli est totum._

There were more words, but it was only when Arthur pressed his forehead to Merlin’s and whispered, “I swear,” that Merlin realized that this was it. They were doing this.

His face, already flush from being so close to Arthur, got even hotter, but Merlin wasn’t sure if it was because of embarrassment of joy or what. It wasn’t the potion, though. Hearing the words from Arthur was its own rush.

“I swear, too,” Merlin said at last.

Around them, the mist began to dissipate, yet as Merlin watched, it didn’t entirely fade. “It’s lingering, like it’s waiting.”

“Don’t care,” Arthur said, and the next thing Merlin knew, he was being yanked into Arthur’s lap. “If every subject in my entire kingdom was standing in an amphitheater around us, I would still—” He pushed a hand between Merlin’s legs. “—need to be—” His fingers pressed at the perimeter and Merlin groaned. “—inside of you.” And then Arthur’s finger slid all the way in.

Merlin died (a little). Or at least, by the buckled noises that came croaking out, it must have sounded like he’d gone into a joust with no armor. As it was, Arthur’s finger was sliding in and out, and Merlin had to dive in to get to Arthur’s lips, and the kiss was less kiss-like, and more of a devouring, because every movement made Merlin feel drier, a little crazier—even as he grew wetter and wetter down below.

It lasted for another thirty seconds before he declared, “Put it in me. Now.” He pushed Arthur’s arm away and crashed onto back, kicking at some small log so he could spread his thighs wide open.

It was Arthur’s turn to make an animalistic choked noise, and then he was lifting Merlin’s heads, fisting his own cock and—

When the head pressed in, Merlin flinched at the tension, but then it twisted and untwisted, and it got _good._ Arthur’s eyes were squeezed shut. His mouth was open, but then he grunted and his eyes bulged. It would have been ugly on anyone else, except that this was Arthur, so instead, it was mad and sexy, and well, this was it—Arthur pushing into the hilt, and Merlin was eager to take it all. At last, when Arthur exhaled, Merlin grabbed his jaw, and brought their gazes together.

Arthur, sticky with sweat and leaves and flower petals, looked more fey than mortal, and when he smiled at Merlin, thinking like Merlin was thinking—this is _us_ —the smile was so silly with joy.

“It’s supposed to be like this,” Merlin said, knowing it was cheesy, but unable to stop himself.

Arthur didn’t make fun of him. Instead, he said, “Just wait until you take my knot.” And then he thrust.

From there, Merlin really lost track of all conscious thought. Because with his skin bare to the air, Arthur’s pheromones were everywhere, and the scent was savage in its sweetness. Kisses were spelled over Merlin’s lips like lazy zephyrs. No matter the athletic pounding going on below, Merlin’s mind was curds and whey.

He only started to come back to reality when Arthur tensed, biting on Merlin’s shoulder. It was time, he realized. Inside, Merlin felt a heave of pressure as the knot pulsed and grew. Above him, Arthur finally stilled, burying his forehead into Merlin’s neck.

A new tremor shook Merlin’s body. His abdomen was already slick from coming once, but some other deep trigger clicked, and then Merlin was shaking from another orgasm. 

Arthur’s hands were tight on Merlin’s biceps until he cuddled Merlin’s arms to his sides, mumbling an incomprehensible mix of lechery and endearments. “Took every last drop … Your ears are like little kites… And knew you could hold my knot … and your eyes shouldn’t be so gorgeous when you look like a sprite.”

Content in his hormone soup, Merlin soothingly patted Arthur’s back—and well, there was no point in bickering. For the moment, they were quite stuck together.

Some minutes (hours?) later, Arthur was able to slide out. It pulled with a bit of sting at the end, and Merlin’s face must have shown it, because Arthur asked, “Are you all right?”

It was a pretty unnecessary question, really. Merlin counted. He’d come outwardly at least three times, such that his stomach was a cream puddle. And who knew how many of the, um, other orgasms there’d been? But Arthur was Arthur, and his big, macho inner alpha apparently needed some stroking, so Merlin popped a kiss on Arthur’s nose, and tried to be as honest as possible. “I feel… full. Like I was hungry—but then I ate the most delicious and heavenly cake ever and—”

“Merlin, you are not seriously comparing sex with me to a cake.”

“I said _heavenly_ cake.”

Arthur was pouting. It was bloody adorable, and it made his bottom lip pop out ever so enticingly. Merlin bit it.

“Ow!” Arthur snapped back, finger on his red pouty lip (which Merlin thought only made it all the more lovely). “I’m not food. I’m, well, I guess I’m your husband…” And his tone went from waspish to soppy just like that.

Merlin melted. Arthur like this was sweeter than a thousand puppies and kittens and fuzzy lambs, but Merlin wasn’t allowed to make anymore analogies, apparently, so he chose the other route, and bit Arthur. This time on the neck.

Arthur allowed it. He even bit Merlin back, and well, then it was on again.

Unlike the previous time, there wasn’t the same rush. Merlin ended up against a tree with Arthur licking his neck and nip-tugging at Merlin’s ear as they found the perfect angle, and Merlin came so hard that he had to use magic as a boost when his knees started shaking out from under him.

Oh, and then there was the third time with Arthur lying back like the laziest, sexiest prat ever, while Merlin used an overhead vine (conveniently lengthened by magic) to bring his hips up and down on him.

After that, Merlin was out of energy. Also, he was disgusting. Semen mixing with flower petals was a terrible idea. Not to mention the sweat and saliva and bits of root his skin had picked up. Lord, Merlin was glad to be a sorcerer because all he had to do was flip his wrist and the gunk was ash in the air. Nice, clean, and dry again.

His robe was a shabby mess, and he was trying to mend it when Arthur looped his hands around Merlin’s belly, and whispered, “I bet we did it.”

It took Merlin a minute to process. Alpha-omega mating—it tended to produce offspring. Constantly.

Merlin expected to freak the fuck out. But no, he made an internal shrug. He was probably too high on hormones to really process this. Then there was the fact that if there was a… baby… it would be Arthur’s. And therefore, it would be _gorgeous._

Oh, yes, definitely the hormones.

Merlin was actually in a good non-panicking place until the creepy pink mist swirled forth again. It emerged from the ground, first, like a sapling, then a longer shrub, and finally blossomed out into a full-bloomed rose, out of which floated the image a little girl wearing an impish grin. She stood for a moment, staring them down, before running to the edge of the clearing. There, she pointed, before dissolving in a poof of pink smoke.

Not good, Merlin thought.

\- - - -

Arthur felt... confused. On one hand, he was incredibly disturbed by the amount of magical freakiness that had invaded his evening. On the other, he was, plain and simple, deliriously pleased with everything. Because of Merlin. Because he was _Arthur’s_ now. 

No one could take him away. Not twat-head Cenred. Not the druids. Not even his father.

Especially not his father. Well, shit. He was going to have to protect Merlin, wasn’t he?

The only ingredient in the soup that gave him pause was the eerie pink smoke-thing, because Merlin seemed to think they _needed to follow it._

No. No and no. “Merlin, I’ll tell you what we’re doing. We’re making a beeline for the edge of the forest, and we’re hightailing it away as fast as we can.”

At Arthur’s words, the air snapped. Ghostly pink curtains drew a perimeter around Arthur, so that there was only one path.

Merlin huffed. “I think it wants us to go back to the ball.”

“This is that stuff you drank, isn’t it? What the hell did you guzzle?”

“Um, something Morgana gave me.”

Which was when Arthur realized how deep in the shit they were. “Merlin, I’m going to say this once. Never ever, ever drink anything Morgana gives you. I don’t care how wide-eyed and soft-voiced she gets. She’s not to be trusted.”

Merlin’s head cocked to the side. “What did she have you drink?”

She’d said it was a “strength tonic,” but it in fact was mashed cow’s eyes in castor oil. Arthur had vomited for two days straight. “Nothing,” he replied archly.

“I think we should go,” Merlin said at last. “I’m not sure the spell will give us much of a choice, and besides—” He chanced a smile at Arthur. “—the effects haven’t been that bad, have they?”

When Merlin looked like that, with his dimpled smile and despicably pretty eyes, disagreeing with him was inconceivable.

Arthur led the way down the smoky pink path.

\- - - -

It was as they were approaching the ball that Arthur noted the differences. He could smell the omegas now. Their scents were sharp and clear in his nostrils, and yet, Arthur’s brain easily disregarded them. The only smell he cared about was Merlin’s, and he loved it all the more for the fact that Merlin smelled like _him._

Thus, Arthur strutted back to the party, like it was a victory march _that it clearly was_. Merlin might have rolled his eyes a few (read: several) times, but he also smiled at Arthur.

Arthur really didn’t trust that smile on Merlin. That was the biting smile. And Arthur’s bottom lip was still bleeding on the inside from the last few assaults.

Nevertheless, because Merlin was his and delicious-smelling and perfect, Arthur wasn’t really paying attention to the goings-on at the ball—which was how he nearly walked into the wall that was Morgana.

“You—” Morgana hissed, except it wasn’t Arthur she was spitting at. Her focus was on Merlin. “—you weren’t supposed to take it. He—” She poked a finger in Arthur’s chest. “—was supposed to take it.”

“You mean that bubbly sprite madness that Merlin drank?” Arthur asked.

But Morgana’s mouth was hanging open, and her nostrils were flared as she inhaled a shocked breath. “You two smell like—”

“—like we’re mated?” Arthur cheerfully finished for her.

This was so great. He never got to see Morgana all flappy and gobsmacked.

Of course, Gwaine had to show up then, leaning over Morgana’s shoulder. “Really?” He had a pungent-smelling flagon in his hand. “How’d you kick the spelly thing? Also, _not fair_.”

“Merlin undid the spell. He has magic,” Arthur said.

“Oh, right. Tell everyone,” Merlin snapped, and Arthur looked to see Merlin locked in a staring contest with Morgana.

And wow, those were some intense stares.

“Stop it, Morgana.” Arthur poked her in the arm. 

“And I’m supposed to believe you’re just magically okay with Merlin having magic?” Morgana demanded.

Arthur blinked at her. “He’s my mate, so, yes.”

“Uther will murder him for what he is.”

“No one is murdering Merlin. Not my Father, not _anyone_. I’d rather die than put him in harm’s way.” And Arthur thought of Merlin’s sparkly magic. “Also, actually, I think it’d be very hard to murder Merlin. He’s quite slippery that way.”

“Thank you, Arthur—and no, Morgana, I’m not abandoning my _destiny._ ”

Arthur was suddenly confused. And Merlin and Morgana were locked in a creepy staring contest again, like they could read each other’s minds.

It dawned on Arthur that maybe they could. Except that Morgana didn’t have magic. Though she did have a lot of anger. And those funny dreams...

Well, huh.

“Do you have to be magical to mind-read like the druids?” he asked loudly to Gwaine.

He didn’t miss that Morgana’s expression paled.

Her teeth were gritted when she asked, “And would you still love me if I were?” 

Oh, well, asked and answered. “Um, well, fuck—I mean, yes. Yeah.”

For the first time, Morgana’s frown fell. Her lip quivered, and Oh, God—it was like she was going to cry.

It was Arthur’s turn to be shocked. “I mean you’re still a royal pain in the—” He had to dodge the punch she aimed for his shoulder.

“So, what’s the plan?” Gwaine interrupted. “I’m betting you’re not taking Arthur back to Camelot to get all crispy on the pyre, so are we riding off into the sunset?” Gwaine’s eyes were totally locked on Morgana as he said the last bit.

But neither Arthur nor Merlin nor Morgana got to answer, because swishing out of the crowd with his duel swords raised was Cenred. At his side was a tall druid.

“That’s him!” Cenred yelled with a finger thrust right at Arthur. “That’s Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot.”

And just when Arthur thought the evening had been going so _well._

\- - - -

Merlin was frankly tired of getting telepathically yelled at. First there had been Morgana with her “ _you betrayed me_ ” tirade, and then crazy-ass Cenred, oh, and now he had Ilsedir, who was looking supremely tall and stoic, yet giving Merlin a frown to end all frowns.

“He’s my mate. What do you expect?” he said.

“Camelot is no home for you, Emrys.” Ilsedir had deigned to speak aloud.

“Arthur is my home, no matter where that home is. You know that.”

“You broke through our magic. And not by your own accord, there is something else—”

Ilsedir was cut off though by Cenred, who pushed forward. “Merlin cannot help his attachment. You must end it for him,” he said to Ilsedir.

“It is not our place to force the way,” Ilsedir said, sadly shaking his head at Cenred. “We find our path within it.”

Cenred appeared rather unimpressed. “His father has slaughtered your people. Someday he will do the same.”

“I will not!” Arthur protested.

Ilsedir’s face remained impassive. “Rivers open to new paths. The ocean becomes clouds. And besides, we suspect the bond has gone beyond the boundaries of our control. The roots have been shredded and the vines have grown and... flowered.” Ilsedir was staring at Merlin’s stomach.

Oh, not now.

Morgana was the one to pick up the conclusion of that sylvan jibber-jabbery. She rounded on Arthur. “You already got him with child!”

And that was when Merlin caught the glint of silver coming off of Cenred’s back. It wasn’t his swords, but a thin dagger, and before Merlin could react, he aimed it—right at Arthur.

It circled once, twice, and Merlin tried to reach out with his magic, but something was wrong and pink and pink and pink—that stupid potion was holding Merlin back—

Yet the knife never connected.

Though not because of any magic.

It was Lancelot. The man leaped forward out of the haze, saving Arthur by taking the blade in arm.

Gwen arrived at Lancelot’s side at the same time that Merlin did. In the background, Merlin heard Arthur shout, “You knave,” and pounce on Cenred. 

Lancelot was saying, “I’m fine. I’m fine. Only a cut in the arm. Not in my middle.” But the tremor in his voice was clear. The wound was in his sword arm, and the knife was deep.

Merlin turned to Ilsedir, ready to beg a healing spell on behalf of his friend, but both Ilsedir and Morgana were wearing the same expression. Their eyes were locked in horror on Merlin.

And that’s when he realized that the pink mist wasn’t just pink anymore—it was mixing with Merlin’s magic again, and it was churning. Blue crackles of light started to fissure the air. Merlin’s hands began to glow white.

Above him, the impish grin appeared in the swirl of pink, and it mouthed, “Do it.”

Merlin swore, even as he released the grip on his magic. 

The world went white.

\- - - -

When Merlin opened his eyes, he wasn’t in the forest anymore. He was on a rock shelf. Dull torch light seemed to be flickering from below. Where the hell was he? He was starting to crawl forward when behind him, there was a deep and monstrous groan in the rocks. He turned to look.

Perched not five paces away was a dragon. And it was gazing at Merlin with obvious, yellow-eyed interest.

Merlin gaped.

The dragon chuckled. “Little wizard, welcome to Camelot.”

This was bad. 

Very, very bad. 

Instead of burning at the stake, he was going to be a lizard’s dinner.

The dragon, meanwhile, was looking at him like he was a grave disappointment. “Arthur and your friends are in the throne room. All is in turmoil. Thus, Merlin, your time has come. Now, tell me, are you ready to face your destiny?” Then, the monster released a puff of sulfur-smelling air.

Merlin fainted.


	10. Chapter 10

When Merlin awoke, it was because a slimy yet firm nasty something was prodding him in the side.

It was an enormous nose. With scales.

Bugger. _It wasn’t just a nightmare._

This time his magic surged right to him, and the dragon’s nose was smooshed against the magical barrier, looking almost funny (except that having the dragon's nose pushed back exposed two sword-length canines). 

“What—?” Merlin began, before shaking his head as he tried and failed to clear his thoughts. “Don’t eat me, okay? I have magic. I might look skinny, but I’m dangerous—and also, if you would be so amenable, please tell me where I am and what the fuck is going on.”

For the first time, the dragon smiled (which, with all those fangs, was enough to make Merlin want to piss himself) like the little human had finally done something good and proper. “You appeared in my roost not ten minutes ago.”

“Your roost.” Merlin looked around and saw a good number of cow carcasses stacked in neat rows along the sides of the cave. He shivered.

“Yesssss,” the dragon hiss-hummed. “It was most unusual magic, the sort of which I haven’t seen in ages.” The dragon did not look pleased by this at all. By his expression, it was as if he’d been subjected to cheek pinching and lavender-scented baby powder. 

It was a discomfiting expression to see on a fire-breathing dinosaur.

Merlin took a full-chested breath. “Okay—now, before—you said something about my friends and Camelot?”

“Yes, they’re all upstairs in throne room. I can hear their shouts even through the many layers of stone.” The dragon gave a baritone chuckle, one which caused the ground under Merlin’s feet to tremble.

“But how is a _dragon_ trapped beneath Camelot?” And no sooner were the words out of his mouth than he noticed the iron collar fitted over the dragon’s neck. Though the ring was simple metal, powerful runes of warding had been etched into it. 

The dragon wasn’t going anywhere.

“Why do you think I haven’t eaten you, young wizard? Someday you will help me.”

For the moment, Merlin saw no reason to argue with that logic. “So, um, how do I get upstairs?”

The dragon pointed a long talon toward a lower shelf in the cavern. 

“Right,” Merlin nodded.

“You’ll need something better to wear.” The dragon gave a disdainful sniff at Merlin’s patchy robe.

Merlin glanced down. The lizard had a point. He was about to meet his father in law. First appearances and all.

Still, he wasn’t ready for what happened. 

The dragon roared, spitting fire not at Merlin but at some lumpy pile of shed skin in the corner. And then clutching the still burning bundle in his talons, the dragon twisted the mess while blowing more fire over it. Then, much less dramatic, he shook the bundle so that the flames died off, and what was left was a shining mahogany garment. Finally, the dragon held it out. “A tunic made of my skin.”

Which was a pretty creepy thing to say, but Merlin released the barrier in the air and accepted the gift. 

To his surprise, it fit like a glove, and better yet, it was dark and shiny. Probably even fireproof. Merlin thought he looked pretty badass.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Merlin said at last, and he let the dragon fly him to the exit.

\- - - -

One moment Arthur had his fist clocking Cenred in the chin, and he was falling backward onto a bench and Cenred was face-first in a bowl of potatoes. It took a solid second for Arthur to realize that they were in the Great Hall _in Camelot_. To the right, Gwen was bent over a bleeding Lancelot, and Morgana had landed on her feet, her chin held high, even as she backed away to hide in the columns. Gwaine was heading over toward the fallen Lancelot. Though, _typical_. Along the way, he’d already snatched a decanter from the long table. Arthur didn’t miss that Gwaine’s eyes kept sliding over to Morgana.

But no Merlin.

Arthur was about to scream for a search party when his father’s voice boomed out. “What sorcery is this?” 

Oh, right, Dad.

Arthur stood on his bench, and after slopping an extra spoonful of gravy at Cenred said, “Father, I suspect we were kicked out of the omega ball.”

“Who are these...?” Uther stared with distaste at the scene around him, even as the rest of the courtiers looked positively riveted.

“You know Gwen—and that fellow there is Lancelot. Gaius isn’t here, but can we order a physician? The man saved my life from this bastard.” Cenred was trying to crawl off the table, and Arthur helped him—by aiming a kick at his rump so that he pitched forward. “You might recognize him. He’s King Cenred of Mercia and he tried to kill me so as to steal my mate. Guards, please arrest him.”

Cenred drew his swords as the guards closed in.. “There is no honor in this.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Oh, shut up. As if you knew what honor was.” 

Cenred growled, but as there were now seven guards with either arrows or swords pointed at Cenred, he lowered his swords and after a nasty glare directed at both Arthur and Uther, he allowed himself to be escorted from the room.

Uther rounded on Arthur. “A mate. You said you had a mate. Where is she?”

Arthur scanned the room yet another time. “Um, I don’t know. But honestly, I’m not too worried yet. He’ll turn up.”

Uther gaped at him, like Arthur had completely lost his mind. Oh, crap, there was a public scolding in the works.

That was, until Morgana decided to take her leave of her column.

“Morgana!” Uther gasped, before leaving his seat to rush over to her.

Morgana’s took a step back as Uther ran at her, and her face went ghost white as Uther wrapped her in his arms. His voice with thick with emotion as he said, “My child, how I have missed you.”

Only to have his voice darken suddenly.

“But Morgana,” Uther’s eyes went wide, and he reared back, “your scent. You’re not bonded, and the protections that have guarded you are not in place here.” He rounded on the courtiers, the entire hall. “All of you out! Only guards that are bonded may remain. OUT NOW!” Uther bellowed.

“Uther, I’m fine,” Morgana protested. “I still have some of the protect—”

But Uther cut her off. “We shall take no risks. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you. You were supposed to be safe, Morgana. There are too many unbonded alphas in Camelot, my dear. I fear we’ll have to move you immediately. “Arthur, you alone I can fully trust to protect her. Draw your sword and guard her side.”

“Morgana can handle herself,” Arthur muttered, even as he did exactly as his father requested. Around him, the last of courtiers finally skittered through the exits.

But Morgana was shaking her head. “I will not have this.” She elbowed Arthur right in the kidney _, the cow_ , and breezed past him to where Gwen and Gwaine were hunched over Lancelot. “Why has no physician yet arrived?” she demanded.

Gwaine (who seemed to think feeding Lancelot as much wine as possible was the best medicine) cut in to say, “Because of you, princess.”

Which turned out to be true, because Uther fixed his glare on Gwaine. “A knight and an alpha. Did I not order you out?”

“Still have the druid-protection-thingy, um, Sire,” Gwaine said, keeping his eyes low.

Arthur decided that _someone_ needed to be sensible. “Father, we can move Morgana up to the east tower. I’ll escort her myself. Then we can get a physician in to see to Lancelot’s wound.”

“No!” Morgana cried. “Do you not see how much blood he’s lost? Not to mention—I think the knife was poisoned.”

Arthur leaned over to look. Lancelot, who was normally so handsomely tan, was as white as a sheet; his entire sleeve was soaked with blood. A normal wound shouldn’t have bled so much, but if the knife had been treated... 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Could the day get any worse?

It was the wrong question to ask, because two major kerfuffles happened.

First, Morgana declared, “Then I shall be the one to save him,” and with a seventeen-year-old glare of rebellion for Uther, Morgana laid her eyes on Lancelot’s arm, and well, there was magical skin repair and Lancelot screamed and Gwen sobbed buckets, but mostly, Uther gasped at the way Morgana’s eyes were shining like burnished copper.

The second kerfuffle was that Merlin finally decided to show up—dressed like a hooker.

\- - - -

Merlin truly didn’t think he smelled that _good_. Yet he felt the need to glare at more than three guards who had licked their lips and eyed him up and down like he was rump roast. Rude. 

In fact, he had to use magic to find his way to the Grand Hall. Asking for directions seemed like it might be interpreted as an invitations by these heathens. So, yes, Merlin was using his magic in sorcerer-killing Camelot. Not a good start.

By the time he arrived in the Grand Hall (he had to go all chameleon to slip past a wall of very gossipy guards and courtiers), things looked not so good.

Uther was red in the face. Gwen was sobbing into Lancelot’s shirt. Gwaine was patting Morgana’s shoulder, while Morgana, in turn, looked ready to either cry or scream depending upon the shift in the wind, and um, Arthur was staring at Merlin with a combination of haughty disapproval and definite sexual intent.

Merlin looked down. He supposed the fire-wrought dragon pants were a wee bit tight now that he really examined them, yet come on, he was apparently already knocked up, and these were so comfortable and so stretchy. Wasn’t that supposed to be a perk? Wearing comfy clothes…

But, huh, the pants probably explained the lecherous looks he’d been getting from the guards.

Of course, clothing really wasn’t the priority right now. Morgana stood, still cloaked in her lily-white gown from the ball, and demanded of Uther, “Say something.”

Uther closed his eyes, squeezed them like he was in pain, before finally opening them again. “Oh, Morgana...” The tall man was shaking. His expression looked broken in two.

“Say it!” she screamed, her whole face trembling, her voice sounding deep from the emotion. “Just say the words. Say what you’ve told all the others. Tell me that you hate me. Tell me I deserve to die. Tell me I’m evil for being born. Tell me.”

Uther stared at her aghast.

“Order in the guards now. I’m not your child. What do you care?”

Something about that final phrase seem to crack something in Uther, because he said, “No,” shaking his head, and oh, dear, Merlin was ready for anything. He was ready to do the whole magical transportation thing and whisk Morgana to safety at the drop of a pin. He wasn’t ready for the big bad king of Camelot to tear up.

“I have loved four women in this life. First, my own mother, second Ygraine, then your mother, and lastly, you, Morgana. I could never do you harm.”

“But it’s not fair!” Morgana cried, and now her face was blotchy and so red against all the white of her dress. “You can’t hold one standard for me, and then a different for all the others. I don’t want to be spared. You used—” She cut off with a sob. “I used to—” Another breath. “We used to love each other.”

“We do, because Morgana,” and here, Uther grabbed her shoulders, “if what is in you is evil, then I am to blame more than any other.”

Morgana frowned at him.

Uther said it very low, “You are not just my daughter in spirit, Morgana, but also in blood.”

“What?” Morgana gasped along with Arthur, Gwaine and Gwen (and Merlin was pretty sure Lancelot would have too except that he looked pretty passed out).

“I didn’t want you to know—I’d promised Gorlois to protect your mother, and then I betrayed him. But I mean what I say, Morgana, I would rather die than bring you to harm. And maybe that’s what all this is: in losing one love through magic, my sins have asked me to turn the other cheek. I have not followed the New Religion justly.”

“If you mean that,” Morgana said, both blubbery and snappish, “then you’ll lift the ban. You have to stop it. Just because someone has magic doesn’t mean they’re _w-wrong_.”

Uther stared at her for a long moment. “For you, the ban shall be lifted.”

Okay, and well, then, Morgana collapsed forward into Uther’s embrace, and well, they both had a pretty hysterical sob.

Merlin thought it was very touching and almost, he thought, as a distinctive pink mist faded through the open window, like a dream come true.

\- - - -

Well, it explained the whole smell thing, Arthur considered. And also, it was very convenient. 

Father wouldn’t want to kill Merlin now. Arthur could work with that.

Either way, it took a while for Merlin to finally get introduced to Father.

Looking at Merlin, Father demanded, “What is it?” And Father was already quite emotional, so Arthur supposed there was no helping the pure outrage from slipping through.

“That’s Merlin,” Morgana said. “He’s my best friend, and he’s Arthur’s mate. Arthur already got him knocked up.”

Uther looked at Merlin with new eyes, before frowning rather injudiciously. “Please see to it that you keep him appropriately clothed Arthur. Wherever you got him from, you’ll need to educate him on our... customs.”

Arthur chose not to explain that Merlin’s village was a three day’s journey by horse away.

Regardless, Uther left to personally escort Morgana to her chambers, while Gwaine and Gwen saw to getting Lancelot down to the infirmary.

Well, and given that Merlin was dressed in leather and smelled like sex and smoke, Arthur dragged him straight to his bedroom and introduced him to the breakfast table, the bathtub, and sometime in the early hours, they made it to the bed.

As he was falling asleep, Arthur decided they’d be keeping Merlin's dragon skin getup. 

Just, it would be for Arthur’s eyes only.


	11. Epilogue

Uther lifted the blanket ban on magic the next morning. It wasn’t a complete overturn. Anyone caught using magic for ill would still end up on a pyre, and Uther wasn’t exactly ready to throw a solstice soiree for the druids, but all in all, it was progress. As Arthur said, _baby steps._

(And then Arthur grinned like a total sop, because anything related to babies these days had that effect.)

Morgana, _the bint_ , had been hiding spells from Merlin, or at least she’d never bothered to tell him that she knew scent-covering spells or nifty defensive magic that could keep even the most persistent alphas at bay. Not to mention the formula for a birth control tonic.

After Merlin puked for the fifth time that morning, he was extra pissed about the last one.

But whatever, it was semi-progress that Uther seemed totally at ease with his daughter using her magic to stay near him and keep “despicable predators” away. 

He’d been less keen on Merlin’s magic when he’d finally found out about it.

Apparently, he and Arthur had gotten into a screaming match. Not good. 

Nevertheless, Uther had given in (because he had to), but mostly, he still refused to talk to Merlin, giving him occasional distasteful looks across the dinner table, like Merlin was a penance that he was forced to bear.

Morgana had assured him things would be better when the baby came.

At that, Merlin had verbally doubted her intelligence.

Cenred had finally left that morning. Uther hadn’t wanted to cause too much trouble, but in exchange for “his prompt and head-still-on departure,” King Cenred had agreed to cede certain borderlands to Camelot. So, now, Ealdor and the areas to the north and southeast were part of Camelot.

Declaring that such lands would need “Lords to shepherd them,” Arthur had knighted Lancelot and given him one chunk, and then also given the other chunk to Gwaine, who had shrugged and then left for the pub (though Merlin knew he was secretly tickled). 

So then Lancelot and Gwen had gotten married, which was the cutest thing ever. (Merlin cried a lot. Hateful hormones). And he was pretty sure that they were so pathetically innocent that they would do no more than hold hands and rub noses until Gwen’s heat. 

Because he did try to give Gwen “tips.” 

But she’d snap, “Merlin!” before covering her ears and running away. _This_ , even after five days married.

Yes, it was a good thing there were heats for those two. And when the first one came, they probably wouldn’t know what had hit them.

Gaius arrived back sometime in the midst of things. When Arthur filled him in, Merlin thought Gaius looked suspiciously unsurprised.

Later, after they were alone, Merlin asked, “Did you know the potion would do that?”

“Hmmm... The potion?”

Merlin scowled at him. “The symbol that was not a phoenix. You knew what it was?”

“Knew, no. Suspected, well, I asked around,” Gaius said airily, eyes far too interested in a bowl of dried newt tongues.

“And?”

Gaius sighed, as if he was being forced to tell Merlin. “In magic, there are many ancient entities of power, but few that are benign. The pink mist you described, and then the words of the spell, well, I believe you may have invoked one of the rare benevolent entities called soul seers. The ingredients in the potions, the sweet rose hip and the liqueurs and the truffles would have helped to attract it, but most of all, your magic would have been the brightest beacon.”

“Soul seers.” Merlin had never heard of such beings.

“Yes, but you probably know them by their common name.”

Merlin waited.

Gaius smiled. “Fairy godmothers, although, what is _true_ about soul seers is that they don’t force you to do anything that you couldn’t or wouldn’t want to do, or at least, what the deepest part of your soul wouldn’t want.”

“Oh...” Merlin frowned. Well, that sort of made sense.

“Of course, they’re quite mischievous according to the legends.”

“You don’t say,” Merlin deadpanned.

\- - - -

Merlin had sneaked up to one of the parapets to tryst with Arthur. It was fun. Arthur would pop out of a corner, and Merlin would shriek, and then Arthur would pin him against a wall—and—

Instead of Arthur popping out of the wall, it was Gwaine and Morgana smashed in the shadows.

Merlin still screamed, though.

“Oh, hell now. Stop that,” Gwaine complained, before turning back to Morgana. “We can keep going, yeah?”

Morgana swept her hair over her shoulder and sighed. “My mood is killed. You’ll never get me off now.”

Gwaine groaned (but it also sounded disturbingly turned on in Merlin’s opinion). "You're not fair."

"True."

“Marry me.”

“No,” she said, but it was with a smile.

“See,” Gwaine said, rounding on Merlin, “it’s not my fault.” 

And then, adjusting himself, Gwaine strode off.

“Um, okay.” Merlin gave Morgana the _now, spill_ look.

But she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were blurry and distant, and he was about to poke her when she gasped, turning to look at him.

“Merlin, this is it. This is my vision. We’re on the eastern parapet, and...” She grimaced. “It’s not at all like I suspected. I’m not the one with child. You’re the one who’s knocked up.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “You don’t say?”

She elbowed him, and naturally, this was the moment when Arthur showed up, coming up behind Merlin and wrapping his arms around Merlin’s stomach. Then Merlin bent his head back, and Arthur startled nibbling yummily on Merlin’s ear.

“Ew. Please allow me to keep my stomach,” Morgana complained.

“Not a problem. Come along, Merlin,” Arthur said, grabbing Merlin’s sleeve and glaring at Morgana.

Well, and then, Merlin was pressed up against the stone in stairwell, and Arthur was on his knees. His cheekbones and eyes might be lovely, but Merlin thought Arthur’s tongue was just the most gorgeous thing. Not to mention his throat, and the way he could take all of Merlin, sucking in and out with crazy enthusiasm, while simultaneously working him from behind, too. It just wasn't in Arthur's nature to not do anything _all the way._ He worked Merlin until he was at the edge, a second from it, before flipping him around and sliding inside.

When Merlin finally came, it was with his head smashed against the gap in the stonework, so that he could see the whole of Camelot out beneath the blue sky. And when he turned back, there was its prince, sweaty and breathtakingly beautiful and looking at Merlin like he was the most precious thing in the whole kingdom.

Huh, Merlin thought. Morgana had been right. This was a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this as a WIP! You were so lovely. I'd never written in Merlin before and IT WAS FUN. Hope you enjoyed the cRAzy. MWAH.


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